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/                                 J. —  —  ,._ 

THE  LIBRARY  OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF 

NORTH  CAROLINA 


ENDOWED  BY  THE 

DIALECTIC  AND  PHILANTHROPIC 

SOCIETIES 


PS  1805 

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UNIVERSITY  OF  N.C.  AT  CHAPEL  HILL 


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DATE 
DUE 


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DUE 


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Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2012  with  funding  from 

University  of  North  Carolina  at  Chapel  Hill 


http://archive.org/details/freejoeothergeorharr 


FREE   JOE 

AND 

OTFxER    GEORGIAN    SKETCHES  £ 


na 


Vzf.  76  -  2 


FREE    JOE 


OTHER    GEORGIAN    SKETCHES 

rS/£TO£ 

BY  £  / 


JOEL  CHANDLER  HARRIS 

AUTHOR  OF  "  UNCLE  REMUS,"   ETC.,   ETC. 


Af 


Univ.  of 
North  Carolina 


NEW  YORK 
CHARLES    SCRIBNER'S    SONS 
"V^  i887 


Copyright,  1887, 
By  CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S   SONS. 


RAND  AVERY   COMPANY, 

ELECTROTYPERS  AND   PRINTERS, 

BOSTON. 


CONTENTS. 


.     .,  PAGE 

V  Free  Joe i 

V Little  Compton 21 

v/Aunt  Fountain's  Prisoner 72 

'  Trouble  on  Lost  Mountain 99 

v  Azalia  . 138 


hrt 


FREE  JOE  AND   THE   REST  OF  THE 
WORLD. 

THE  name  of  Free  Joe- strikes  humorously  upon 
the  ear  of  memory.  It  is  impossible  to  say 
why,  for  he  was  the  humblest,  the  simplest,  and  the 
most  serious  of  all  God's  living  creatures,  sadly  lack- 
ing in  all  those  elements  that  suggest  the  humorous. 
It  is  certain,  moreover,  that  in  1850  the  sober-minded 
citizens  of  the  little  Georgian  village  of  Hillsborough 
were  not  inclined  to  take  a  humorous  view  of  Free 
Joe,  and  neither  his  name  nor  his  presence  provoked 
a  smile.  He  was  a  black  atom,  drifting  hither  and 
thither  without  an  owner,  blown  about  by  all  the 
winds  of  circumstance,  and  given  over  to  shiftless- 
ness. 

The  problems  of  one  generation  are  the  paradoxes 
of  a  succeeding  one,  particularly  if  war,  or  some  such 
incident,  intervenes  to  clarify  the  atmosphere  and 
strengthen  the  understanding.  Thus,  in  1850,  Free 
Joe  represented  not  only  a  problem  of  large  con- 
cern, but,  in  the  watchful  eyes  of  Hillsborough,  he 
was  the  embodiment  of  that  vague  and  mysterious 
danger  that  seemed  to  be  forever  lurking  on  the  out- 
skirts of  slavery,  ready  to  sound  a  shrill  and  ghostly 


2  Free  Joe  and  the  Rest  of  the   World. 

signal  in  the  impenetrable  swamps,  and  steal  forth 
under  the  midnight  stars  to  murder,  rapine,  and  pil- 
lage, —  a  danger  always  threatening,  and  yet  never 
assuming  shape  ;  intangible,  and  yet  real ;  impossi- 
ble, and  yet  not  improbable.  Across  the  serene  and 
smiling  front  of  safety,  the  pale  outlines  of  the  awful 
shadow  of  insurrection  sometimes  fell.  With  this 
invisible  panorama  as  a  background,  it  was  natural 
that  the  figure  of  Free  Joe,  simple  and  humble  as  it 
was,  should  assume  undue  proportions.  Go  where 
he  would,  do  what  he  might,  he  could  not  escape  the 
finger  of  observation  and  the  kindling  eye  of  suspi- 
cion. His  lightest  words  were  noted,  his  slightest 
actions  marked. 

Under  all  the  circumstances  it  was  natural  that  his 
peculiar  condition  should  reflect  itself  in  his  habits 
and  manners.  The  slaves  laughed  loudly  day  by 
day,  but  Free  Joe  rarely  laughed.  The  slaves  sang 
at  their  work  and  danced  at  their  frolics,  but  no  one 
ever  heard  Free  Joe  sing  or  saw  him  dance.  There 
was  something  painfully  plaintive  and  appealing  in 
his  attitude,  something  touching  in  his  anxiety  to 
please.  He  was  of  the  friendliest  nature,  and  seemed 
to  be  delighted  when  he  could  amuse  the  little  chil- 
dren who  had  made  a  playground  of  the  public 
square.  At  times  he  would  please  them  by  making 
his  little  dog  Dan  perform  all  sorts  of  curious  tricks, 
or  he  would  tell  them  quaint  stories  of  the  beasts  of 
the  field  and  birds  of  the  air  ;  and  frequently  he  was 


Free  Joe  and  the  Rest  of  the   World.  3 

coaxed  into  relating  the  story  of  his  own  freedom. 
That  story  was  brief,  but  tragical. 

In  the  year  of  our  Lord  1840,  when  a  negro-specu- 
lator of  a  sportive  turn  of  mind  reached  the  little 
village  of  Hillsborough  on  his  way  to  the  Mississippi 
region,  with  a  caravan  of  likely  negroes  of  both 
sexes,  he  found  much  to  interest  him.  In  that  day 
and  at  that  time  there  were  a  number  of  young  men 
in  the  village  who  had  not  bound  themselves  over  to 
repentance  for  the  various  misdeeds  of  the  flesh.  To 
these  young  men  the  negro-speculator  (MajjaijLmnp- 
ton  was  his  name)  proceeded  to  address  himself. 
He  was  a  Virginian,  he  declared ;  and,  to  prove  the 
statement,  he  referred  all  the  festively  inclined  young 
men  of  Hillsborough  to  a  barrel  of  peach-brandy  in 
one  of  his  covered  wagons.  In  the  minds  of  these 
young  men  there  was  less  doubt  in  regard  to  the  age 
and  quality  of  the  brandy  than  there  was  in  regard 
to  the  negro-trader's  birthplace.  Major  Frampton 
might  or  might  not  have  been  born  in  the  Old 
Dominion,  — that  was  a  matter  for  consideration  and 
inquiry,  —  but  there  could  be  no  question  as  to  the 
mellow  pungency  of  the  peach-brandy. 

In  his  own  estimation,  Major  Frampton  was  one  of 
the  most  accomplished  of  men.  He  had  summered 
at  the  Virginia  Springs  ;  he  had  been  to  Philadelphia, 
to  Washington,  to  Richmond,  to  Lynchburg,  and  to 
Charleston,  and  had  accumulated  a  great  deal  of  ex- 
perience which  he  found  useful.     Hillsborough  was 


4  Free  Joe  and  the  Rest  of  the   World. 

hid  in  the  woods  of  Middle  Georgia,  and  its  general 
aspect  of  innocence  impressed  him.  He  looked  on 
the  young  men  who  had  shown  their  readiness  to  test 
his  peach-brandy,  as  overgrown  country  boys  who 
needed  to  be  introduced  to  some  of  the  arts  and 
sciences  he  had  at  his  command.  Thereupon  the 
major  pitched  his  tents,  figuratively  speaking,  and 
became,  for  the  time  being,  a  part  and  parcel  of  the 
innocence  that  characterized  Hillsborough.  A  wiser 
man  would  doubtless  have  made  the  same  mistake. 

The  little  village  possessed  advantages  that  seemed 
to  be  providentially  arranged  to  fit  the  various  enter- 
prises that  Major  Frampton  had  in  view.  There  was 
the  auction-block  in  front  of  the  stuccoed  court-house, 
if  he  desired  to  dispose  of  a  few  of  his  negroes ;  there 
was  a  quarter-track,  laid  out  to  his  hand  and  in  ex- 
cellent order,  if  he  chose  to  enjoy  the  pleasures  of 
horse-racing ;  there  were  secluded  pine  thickets 
within  easy  reach,  if  he  desired  to  indulge  in  the 
exciting  pastime  of  cock-fighting ;  and  various  lonely 
and  unoccupied  rooms  in  the  second  story  of  the 
tavern,  if  he  cared  to  challenge  the  chances  of  dice 
or  cards. 

Major  Frampton  tried  them  all  with  varying  luck, 
until  he  began  his  famous  game  of  poker  with  Judge 
Alfred  Wellington,  a  stately  gentleman  with  a  flowing 
white  beard  and  mild  blue  eyes  that  gave  him  the 
appearance  of  a  benevolent  patriarch.  The  history  of 
the  game  in  which  Major  Frampton  and  Judge  Alfred 


Free  Joe  and  the  Rest  of  the   World.  5 

Wellington  took  part  is  something  more  than  a  tradi- 
tion in  Hillsborough,  for  there  are  still  living  three 
or  four  men  who  sat  around  the  table  and  watched 
its  progress.  It  is  said  that  at  various  stages  of  the 
game  Major  Frampton  would  destroy  the  cards  with 
which  they  were  playing,  and  send  for  a  new  pack, 
but  the  result  was  always  the  same.  The  mild  blue 
eyes  of  Judge  Wellington,  with  few  exceptions,  con- 
tinued to  overlook  "hands"  that  were  invincible  — 
a  habit  they  had  acquired  during  a  long  and  arduous 
course  of  training  from  Saratoga  to  New  Orleans. 
Major  Frampton  lost  his  money,  his  horses,  his 
wagons,  and  all  his  negroes  but  one,  his  body-ser- 
vant. When  his  misfortune  had  reached  this  limit, 
the  major  adjourned  the  game.  The  sun  was  shining 
brightly,  and  all  nature  was  cheerful.  It  is  said  that 
the  major  also  seemed  to  be  cheerful.  However  this 
may  be,  he  visited  the  court-house,  and  executed  the 
papers  that  gave  his  body-servant  his  freedom.  This 
being  done,  Major  Frampton  sauntered  into  a  con- 
venient pine  thicket,  and  blew  out  his  brains. 

The  negro  thus  freed  came  to  be  known  as  Free 
Joe.  Compelled,  under  the  law,  to  choose  a  guard- 
ian, he  chose  Judge  Wellington,  chiefly  because  his 
wife  Lucinda  was  among  the  negroes  won  from 
Major  Frampton.  For  several  years  Free  Joe  had 
what  may  be  called  a  jovial  time.  His  wife  Lucinda 
was  well  provided  for,  and  he  found  it  a  compara- 
tively easy  matter  to  provide  for  himself ;   so  that, 


6  Free  Joe  and  the  Rest  of  the   World. 

taking  all  the  circumstances  into  consideration,  it  is 
not  matter  for  astonishment  that  he  became  somewhat 
shiftless. 

When  Judge  Wellington  died,  Free  Joe's  troubles 
began.  The  judge's  negroes,  including  Lucinda, 
went  to  his  half-brother,  a  man  named  Calderwood, 
who  was  a  hard  master  and  a  rough  customer  gener- 
ally,—  a  man  of  many  eccentricities  of  mind  and 
character.  His  neighbors  had  a  habit  of  alluding  to 
him  as  "  Old  Spite  ;"  and  the  name  seemed  to  fit  him 
so  completely,  that  he  was  known  far  and  near  as 
"Spite  "  Calderwood.  He  probably  enjoyed  the  dis- 
tinction the  name  gave  him,  at  any  rate,  he  never 
resented  it,  and  it  was  not  often  that  he  missed  an 
opportunity  to  show  that  he  deserved  it.  Calder- 
wood's  place  was  two  or  three  miles  from  the  village 
of  Hillsborough,  and  Free  Joe  visited  his  wife  twice 
a  week,  Wednesday  and  Saturday  nights. 

One  Sunday  he  was  sitting  in  front  of  Lucinda' s 
cabin,  when  Calderwood  happened  to  pass  that  way. 

"  Howdy,  marster  ? "  said  Free  Joe,  taking  off  his 
hat. 

"  Who  are  you  ?  "  exclaimed  Calderwood  abruptly, 
halting  and  staring  at  the  negro. 

"  I'm  name'  Joe,  marster.  I'm  Lucindy's  ole 
man." 

"  Who  do  you  belong  to  ?  " 

"Marse  John  Evans  is  my  gyardeen,  marster." 

"  Big  name  —  gyardeen.     Show  your  pass." 


Free  Joe  and  the  Rest  of  the    World.  J 

Free  Joe  produced  that  document,  and  Calderwood 
read  it  aloud  slowly,  as  if  he  found  it  difficult  to  get 
at  the  meaning  :  — 

"  To  whom  it  may  concern :  This  is  to  certify  that 
the  boy  Joe  Frump  ton  has  my  permission  to  visit  his 
wife  Lucinda." 

This  was  dated  at  Hillsborough,  and  signed  'John 
W.  Evans." 

Calderwood  read  it  twice,  and  then  looked  at  Free 
Joe,  elevating  his  eyebrows,  and  showing  his  discol- 
ored teeth. 

"  Some  mighty  big  words  in  that  there.  Evans 
owns  this  place,  I  reckon.  When's  he  comin'  down 
to  take  hold  ?" 

Free  Joe  fumbled  with  his  hat.  He  was  badly 
frightened. 

"Lucindy  say  she  speck  you  wouldn't  min'  my 
comin',  long  ez  I  behave,  marster." 

Calderwood  tore  the  pass  in  pieces  and  flung  it 
away. 

"  Don't  want  no  free  niggers  'round  here,"  he  ex- 
claimed. "There's  the  big  road.  It'll  carry  you  to 
town.  Don't  let  me  catch  you  here  no  more.  Now, 
mind  what  I  tell  you." 

Free  Joe  presented  a  shabby  spectacle  as  he  moved 
off  with  his  little  dog  Dan  slinking  at  his  heels.  It 
should  be  said  in  behalf  of  Dan,  however,  that  his 
bristles  were  up,  and  that  he  looked  back  and 
growled.     It  may  be  that  the  dog  had  the  advantage 


8  Free  Joe  and  the  Rest  of  the    World. 

of  insignificance,  but  it  is  difficult  to  conceive  how  a 
dog  bold  enough  to  raise  his  bristles  under  Calder- 
wood's  very  eyes  could  be  as  insignificant  as  Free 
Joe.  But  both  the  negro  and  his  little  dog  seemed 
to  give  a  new  and  more  dismal  aspect  to  forlornness 
as  they  turned  into  the  road  and  went  toward  Hills- 
borough. 

After  this  incident  Free  Joe  appeared  to  have 
clearer  ideas  concerning  his  peculiar  condition.  He 
realized  the  fact  that  though  he  was  free  he  was 
more  helpless  than  any  slave.  Having  no  owner, 
every  man  was  his  master.  He  knew  that  he  was 
the  object  of  suspicion,  and  therefore  all  his  slender 
resources  (ah  !  how  pitifully  slender  they  were ! ) 
were  devoted  to  winning,  not  kindness  and  apprecia- 
tion, but  toleration  ;  all  his  efforts  were  in  the  direc- 
tion of  mitigating  the  circumstances  that  tended  to 
make  his  condition  so  much  worse  than  that  of  the 
negroes  around  him,  —  negroes  who  had  friends 
because  they  had  masters. 

So  far  as  his  own  race  was  concerned,  Free  Joe 
was  an  exile.  If  the  slaves  secretly  envied  him  his 
freedom  (which  is  to  be  doubted,  considering  his  mis- 
erable condition),  they  openly  despised  him,  and  lost 
no  opportunity  to  treat  him  with  contumely.  Per- 
haps this  was  in  some  measure  the  result  of  the  atti- 
tude which  Free  Joe  chose  to  maintain  toward  them. 
No  doubt  his  instinct  taught  him  that  to  hold  him- 
self aloof  from  the  slaves  would  be  to  invite  from  the 


Free  Joe  and  the  Rest  of  the   World.  9 

whites  the  toleration  which  he  coveted,  and  without 
which  even  his  miserable  condition  would  be  rendered 
more  miserable  still. 

His  greatest  trouble  was  the  fact  that  he  was  not 
allowed  to  visit  his  wife ;  but  he  soon  found  a  way 
out  of  this  difficulty.  After  he  had  been  ordered 
away  from  the  Calderwood  place,  he  was  in  the  habit 
of  wandering  as  far  in  that  direction  as  prudence 
would  permit.  Near  the  Calderwood  place,  but  not 
on  Calderwood's  land,  lived  an  old  man  named  Mica- 
jah  Staley  and  his  sister  Becky  Staley.  These  people 
were  old  and  very  poor.  Old  Micajah  had  a  palsied 
arm  and  hand ;  but,  in  spite  of  this,  he  managed  to 
earn  a  precarious  living  with  his  turning-lathe.  i 

When  he  was  a  slave  Free  Joe  would  have  scorned 
these  representatives  of  a  class  known  as  poor  white 
trash,  but  now  he  found  them  sympathetic  and  help- 
ful in  various  ways.  From  the  back,  door  of  their 
cabin  he  could  hear  the  Calderwood  negroes  singing 
at  night,  and  he  sometimes  fancied  he  could  distin- 
guish Lucinda's  shrill  treble  rising  above  the  other 
voices.  A  large  poplar  grew  in  the  woods  some  dis- 
tance from  the  Staley  cabin,  and  at  the  foot  of  this 
tree  Free  Joe  would  sit  for  hours  with  his  face  turned 
toward  Calderwood's.  His  little  dog  Dan  would  curl 
up  in  the  leaves  near  by,  and  the  two  seemed  to  be 
as  comfortable  as  possible. 

One  Saturday  afternoon  Free  Joe,  sitting  at  the 
foot  of  this  friendly  poplar,  fell  asleep.     How  long 


i  o  Free  Joe  and  the  Rest  of  the   World. 

he  slept,  he  could  not  tell  ;  but  when  he  awoke  little 
Dan  was  licking  his  face,  the  moon  was  shining 
brightly,  and  Lucinda  his  wife  stood  before  him 
laughing.  The  dog,  seeing  that  Free  Joe  was  asleep, 
had  grown  somewhat  impatient,  and  he  concluded  to 
make  an  excursion  to  the  Calderwood  place  on  his 
own  account.  Lucinda  was  inclined  to  give  the 
incident  a  twist  in  the  direction  of  superstition. 

"  I  'uz  settin'  down  front  er  de  fireplace,"  she  said, 
"cookin'  me  some  meat,  w'en  all  of  a  sudden  I  year 
sumpin  at  de  do'  —  scratch,  scratch.  I  tuck'n  tu'n 
de  meat  over,  en  make  out  I  aint  year  it.  Bimeby  it 
come  dar  'gin — scratch,  scratch.  I  up  en  open  de 
do',  I  did,  en,  bless  de  Lord !  dar  wuz  little  Dan,  en 
it  look  like  ter  me  dat  his  ribs  done  grow  tergeer. 
I  gin  'im  some  bread,  en  den,  w'en  he  start  out,  I 
tuck'n  foller  'im,  kaze,  I  say  ter  myse'f,  maybe  my 
nigger  man  mought  be  some'rs  'roun'.  Dat  ar  little 
dog  got  sense,  mon." 

Free  Joe  laughed  and  dropped  his  hand  lightly  on 
Dan's  head.  For  a  long  time  after  that  he  had  no 
difficulty  in  seeing  his  wife.  He  had  only  to  sit  by 
the  poplar-tree  until  little  Dan  could  run  and  fetch 
her.  But  after  a  while  the  other  negroes  discovered 
that  Lucinda  was  meeting  Free  Joe  in  the  woods, 
and  information  of  the  fact  soon  reached  Calder- 
wood's  ears.  Calderwood  was  what  is  called  a  man 
of  action.  He  said  nothing ;  but  one  day  he  put 
Lucinda  in  his  buggy,  and  carried  her  to  Macon,  sixty 


Free  Joe  and  the  Rest  of  the    World.  1 1 

miles  away.  He  carried  her  to  Macon,  and  came 
back  without  her ;  and  nobody  in  or  around  Hills- 
borough, or  in  that  section,  ever  saw  her  again. 

For  many  a  night  after  that  Free  Joe  sat  in  the 
woods  and  waited.  Little  Dan  would  run  merrily  off 
and  be  gone  a  long  time,  but  he  always  came  back 
without  Lucinda.  This  happened  over  and  over 
again.     The  "  willis-whistlers "  would  call  and  call,\ 


like  phantom  huntsmen  wandering  on  a  far-off  shore ; 
the  screech-owl  would  shake  and  shiver  in  the  depths 
of  the  woods  ;  the  night-hawks,  sweeping  by  on 
noiseless  wings,  would  snap  their  beaks  as  though 
they  enjoyed  the  huge  joke  of  which  Free  Joe  and 
little  Dan  were  the  victims  ;  and  the  whip-poor-wills 
would  cry  to  each  other  through  the  gloom.  Each 
night  seemed  to  be  lonelier  than  the  preceding,  but 
Free  Joe's  patience  was  proof  against  loneliness. 
There  came  a  time,  however,  when  little  Dan  refused 
to  go  after  Lucinda.  When  Free  Joe  motioned  him 
in  the  direction  of  the  Calderwood  place,  he  would 
simply  move  about  uneasily  and  whine ;  then  he 
would  curl  up  in  the  leaves  and  make  himself 
comfortable. 

One  night,  instead  of  going  to  the  poplar-tree  to 
wait  for  Lucinda,  Free  Joe  went  to  the  Staley  cabin, 
and,  in  order  to  make  his  welcome  good,  as  he  ex- 
pressed it,  he  carried  with  him  an  armful  of  fat-pine 
splinters.  Miss  Becky  Staley  had  a  great  reputation 
in  those  parts  as  a  fortune-teller,  and  the  schoolgirls, 


1 2  Free  Joe  and  the  Rest  of  the   World. 

as  well  as  older  people,  often  tested  her  powers  in 
this  direction,  some  in  jest  and  some  in  earnest. 
Free  Joe  placed  his  humble  offering  of  light-wood  in 
the  chimney-corner,  and  then  seated  himself  on  the 
steps,  dropping  his  hat  on  the  ground  outside. 

"Miss  Becky,"  he  said  presently,  "whar  in  de 
name  er  gracious  you  reckon  Lucindy  is  ?  " 

"Well,  the  Lord  he'p  the  nigger!  "  exclaimed  Miss 
Becky,  in  a  tone  that  seemed  to  reproduce,  by  some 
curious  agreement  of  sight  with  sound,  her  general 
aspect  of  peakedness.  "Well,  the  Lord  he'p  the 
nigger !  haint  you  been  a-seein'  her  all  this  blessed 
time  ?  She's  over  at  old  Spite  Calderwood's,  if  she's 
anywheres,  I  reckon." 

"No'm,  dat  I  aint,  Miss  Becky.  I  aint  seen 
Lucindy  in  now  gvvine  on  mighty  nigh  a  mont'." 

"Well,  it  haint  a-gwine  to  hurt  you,"  said  Miss 
Becky,  somewhat  sharply.  "  In  my  day  an'  time  it 
wuz  allers  took  to  be  a  bad  sign  when  niggers  got  to 
honey  in'  'roun*  an'  gwine  on." 

"Yessum,"  said  Free  Joe,  cheerfully  assenting  to 
the  proposition  —  "yessum,  dat's  so,  but  me  an'  my 
ole  'oman,  we  'uz  raise  tergeer,  en  dey  aint  bin  many 
days  w'en  we  'uz  'way  fum  one  'n'er  like  we  is  now." 

"Maybe  she's  up  an'  took  up  wi'  some  un  else," 
said  Micajah  Staley  from  the  corner.  "  You  know 
what  the  sayin'  is,  'New  master,  new  nigger.' " 

"  Dat's  so,  dat's  de  sayin',  but  tain't  wid  my  ole 
'oman  like  'tis  wid  yuther  niggers.     Me  en  her  wuz 


Free  Joe  and  the  Rest  of  the    World.  1 3 

des  natally  raise  up  tergeer.  Dey's  lots  likelier 
niggers  dan  w'at  I  is,"  said  Free  Joe,  viewing  his 
shabbiness  with  a  critical  eye,  "but  I  knows  Lucindy 
mos'  good  ez  I  does  little  Dan  dar  —  dat  I  does." 

There  was  no  reply  to  this,  and  Free  Joe  con- 
tinued, — 

"  MisS  Becky,  I  wish  you  please,  ma'am,  take  en 
run  yo'  kyards  en  see  sump'n  n'er  'bout  Lucindy ; 
kaze  ef  she  sick,  I'm  gwine  dar.  Dey  ken  take  en 
take  me  up  en  gimme  a  stroppin',  but  I'm  gwine 
dar." 

Miss  Becky  got  her  cards,  but  first  she  picked  up 
a  cup,  in  the  bottom  of  which  were  some  coffee- 
grounds.  These  she  whirled  slowly  round  and 
round,  ending  finally  by  turning  the  cup  upside  down 
on  the  hearth  and  allowing  it  to  remain  in  that 
position. 

"  I'll  turn  the  cup  first,"  said  Miss  Becky,  "  and 
then  I'll  run  the  cards  and  see  what  they  say." 

As  she  shuffled  the  cards  the  fire  on  the  hearth 
burned  low,  and  in  its  fitful  light  the  gray-haired, 
thin-featured  woman  seemed  to  deserve  the  weird 
reputation  which  rumor  and  gossip  had  given  her. 
She  shuffled  the  cards  for  some  moments,  gazing 
intently  in  the  dying  fire  ;  then,  throwing  a  piece  of 
pine  on  the  coals,  she  made  three  divisions  of  the 
pack,  disposing  them  about  in  her  lap.  Then  she 
took  the  first  pile,  ran  the  cards  slowly  through  her 
fingers,  and  studied  them  carefully.     To  the  first  she 


14  Free  Joe  and  the  Rest  of  the   World. 

added  the  second  pile.  The  study  of  these  was 
evidently  not  satisfactory.  She  said  nothing,  but 
frowned  heavily ;  and  the  frown  deepened  as  she 
added  the  rest  of  the  cards  until  the  entire  fifty-two 
had  passed  in  review  before  her.  Though  she 
frowned,  she  seemed  to  be  deeply  interested.  With- 
out changing  the  relative  position  of  the  cards,  she 
ran  them  all  over  again.  Then  she  threw  a  larger 
piece  of  pine  on  the  fire,  shuffled  the  cards  afresh, 
divided  them  into  three  piles,  and  subjected  them  to 
the  same  careful  and  critical  examination. 

"I  can't  tell  the  day  when  I've  seed  the  cards  run 
this  a-way,"  she  said  after  a  while.  "  What  is  an' 
what  aint,  I'll  never  tell  you ;  but  I  know  what  the 
cards  sez." 

"Wat  does  dey  say,  Miss  Becky  ?"  the  negro  in- 
quired, in  a  tone  the  solemnity  of  which  was  height- 
ened by  its  eagerness. 

"They  er  runnin'  quare.  These  here  that  I'm 
a-lookin'  at,"  said  Miss  Becky,  "they  stan'  for  the 
past.  Them  there,  they  er  the  present ;  and  the 
t'others,  they  er  the  future.  Here's  a  bundle,"  — 
tapping  the  ace  of  clubs  with  her  thumb,  —  "an' 
here's  a  journey  as  plain  as  the  nose  on  a  man's  face. 
Here's  Lucinda  "  — 

"  Whar  she,  Miss  Becky  ?  " 
"  Here  she  is  —  the  queen  of  spades." 
Free  Joe  grinned.     The  idea  seemed  to  please  him 
immensely. 


Free  Joe  and  the  Rest  of  the    World.  15 

"  Well,  well,  well !  "  he  exclaimed.  "  Ef  dat  don't 
beat  my  time  !  De  queen  er  spades  !  Wen  Lucindy 
year  dat  hit'll  tickle  'er,  sho'  ! " 

Miss  Becky  continued  to  run  the  cards  back  and 
forth  through  her  fingers. 

"Here's  a  bundle  an'  a  journey,  and  here's 
Lucinda.     An'  here's  ole  Spite  Calderwood." 

She  held  the  cards  toward  the  negro  and  touched 
the  king  of  clubs. 

"De  Lord  he'p  my  soul!"  exclaimed  Free  Joe 
with  a  chuckle.  "  De  faver's  dar.  Yesser,  dat's 
him !  Wat  de  matter  'long  wid  all  un  um,  Miss 
Becky?" 

The  old  woman  added  the  second  pile  of  cards  to 
the  first,  and  then  the  third,  still  running  them 
through  her  fingers  slowly  and  critically.  By  this 
time  the  piece  of  pine  in  the  fireplace  had  wrapped 
itself  in  a  mantle  of  flame,  illuminating  the  cabin 
and  throwing  into  strange  relief  the  figure  of  Miss 
Becky  as  she  sat  studying  the  cards.  She  frowned 
ominously  at  the  cards  and  mumbled  a  few  words  to 
herself.  Then  she  dropped  her  hands  in  her  lap  and 
gazed  once  more  into  the  fire.  Her  shadow  danced 
and  capered  on  the  wall  and  floor  behind  her,  as  if, 
looking  over  her  shoulder  into  the  future,  it  could 
behold  a  rare  spectacle.  After  a  while. she  picked 
up  the  cup  that  had  been  turned  on  the  hearth. 
The  coffee-grounds,  shaken  around,  presented  what 
seemed  to  be  a  most  intricate  map. 


1 6  Free  Joe  and  the  Rest  of  the    World. 

"Here's  the  journey,"  said  Miss  Becky,  presently; 
"here's  the  big  road,  here's  rivers  to  cross,  here's 
the  bundle  to  tote."  She  paused  and  sighed. 
"  They  haint  no  names  writ  here,  an'  what  it  all 
means  I'll  never  tell  you.  Cajy,  I  wish  you'd  be  so 
good  as  to  han'  me  my  pipe." 

"  I  haint  no  hand  wi'  the  kyards,"  said  Cajy,  as  he 
handed  the  pipe,  "  but  I  reckon  I  can  patch  out  your 
misinformation,  Becky,  bekaze  the  other  day,  whiles 
I  was  a-finishin'  up  Mizzers  Perdue's  rollin'-pin,  I 
hearn  a  rattlin'  in  the  road.  I  looked  out,  an'  Spite 
Calderwood  was  a-drivin'  by  in  his  buggy,  an'  thar 
sot  Lucinda  by  him.  It'd  in-about  drapt  out  er  my 
rain'." 

Free  Joe  sat  on  the  door-sill  and  fumbled  at  his 
hat,  flinging  it  from  one  hand  to  the  other. 

"You  aint  see  um  gwine  back,  is  you,  Mars  Cajy?" 
he  asked  after  a  while. 

"Ef  they  went  back  by  this  road,"  said  Mr.  Staley, 
with  the  air  of  one  who  is  accustomed  to  weigh  well 
his  words,  "it  must  'a'  bin  endurin'  of  the  time 
whiles  I  was  asleep,  bekaze  I  haint  bin  no  furder 
from  my  shop  than  to  yon  bed." 

"  Well,  sir ! "  exclaimed  Free  Joe  in  an  awed  tone, 
which  Mr.  Staley  seemed  to  regard  as  a  tribute  to 
his  extraordinary  powers  of  statement. 

"Ef  it's  my  beliefs  you  want,"  continued  the  old 
man,  "  I'll  pitch  'em  at  you  fair  and  free.  My  beliefs 
is  that  Spite  Calderwood  is  gone  an'  took  Lucindy 


Free  Joe  and  the  Rest  of  the   World.  1 7 

outen  the  county.  Bless  your  heart  and  soul !  when 
Spite  Caldenvood  meets  the  Old  Boy  in  the  road 
they'll  be  a  tumble  scuffle.  You  mark  what  I  tell 
you." 

Free  Joe,  still  fumbling  with  his  hat,  rose  and 
leaned  against  the  door-facing.  He  seemed  to  be 
embarrassed.     Presently  he  said,  — 

"  I  speck  I  better  be  gittin'  'long.  Nex'  time 
I  see  Lucindy,  I'm  gwine  tell  'er  w'at  Miss  Becky 
say  'bout  de  queen  er  spades  —  dat  I  is.  Ef  dat 
don't  tickle  'er,  dey  ain't  no  nigger  'oman  never 
bin  tickle'." 

He  paused  a  moment,  as  though  waiting  for  some 
remark  or  comment,  some  confirmation  of  misfortune, 
or,  at  the  very  least,  some  indorsement  of  his  sugges- 
tion that  Lucinda  would  be  greatly  pleased  to  know 
that  she  had  figured  as  the  queen  of  spades ;  but 
neither  Miss  Becky  nor  her  brother  said  any  thing. 

"  One  minnit  ridin'  in  the  buggy  'longside  er  Mars 
Spite,  en  de  nex'  highfalutin'  'roun'  playin'  de  queen 
er  spades.  Mon,  deze  yer  nigger  gals  gittin'  up  in 
de  pictur's  ;  dey  sholy  is." 

With  a  brief  "  Good-night,  Miss  Becky,  Mars 
Cajy,"  Free  Joe  went  out  into  the  darkness,  fol- 
lowed by  little  Dan.  He  made  his  way  to  the  pop- 
lar, where  Lucinda  had  been  in  the  habit  of  meeting 
him,  and  sat  down.  He  sat  there  a  long  time  ;  he 
sat  there  until  little  Dan,  growing  restless,  trotted 
off  in  the  direction  of  the  Calderwood  place.     Dozing 


1 8  Free  Joe  and  the  Rest  of  the   World. 

against  the  poplar,  in  the  gray  dawn  of  the  morning, 
Free  Joe  heard  Spite  Calderwood's  fox-hounds  in 
full  cry  a  mile  away. 

"  Shoo !  "  he  exclaimed,  scratching  his  head,  and 
laughing  to  himself,  "  dem  ar  dogs  is  des  a-warmin' 
dat  old  fox  up." 

But  it  was  Dan  the  hounds  were  after,  and  the 
little  dog  came  back  no  more.  Free  Joe  waited  and 
waited,  until  he  grew  tired  of  waiting.  He  went 
back  the  next  night  and  waited,  and  for  many  nights 
thereafter.  His  waiting  was  in  vain,  and  yet  he 
never  regarded  it  as  in  vain.  Careless  and  shabby 
as  he  was,  Free  Joe  was  thoughtful  enough  to  have 
his  theory.  He  was  convinced  that  little  Dan  had 
found  Lucinda,  and  that  some  night  when  the  moon 
was  shining  brightly  through  the  trees,  the  dog 
would  rouse  him  from  his  dreams  as  he  sat  sleeping 
at  the  foot  of  the  poplar-tree,  and  he  would  open  his 
eyes  and  behold  Lucinda  standing  over  him,  laugh- 
ing merrily  as  of  old  ;  and  then  he  thought  what  fun 
they  would  have  about  the  queen  of  spades. 

How  many  long  nights  Free  Joe  waited  at  the 
foot  of  the  poplar-tree  for  Lucinda  and  little  Dan, 
no  one  can  ever  know.  He  kept  no  account  of 
them,  and  they  were  not  recorded  by  Micajah  Staley 
nor  by  Miss  Becky.  The  season  ran  into  summer 
and  then  into  fall.  One  night  he  went  to  the  Staley 
cabin,  cut  the  two  old  people  an  armful  of  wood, 
and   seated   himself    on   the   door-steps,    where    he 


LITTLE    COMPTON. 

VERY  few  Southern  country  towns  have  been 
more  profitably  influenced  by  the  new  order  of 
things  than  Hillsborough  in  Middle  Georgia.  At 
various  intervals  since  the  war  it  has  had  what  the 
local  weekly  calls  "a  business  boom."  The  old 
tavern  has  been  torn  down,  and  in  its  place  stands 
a  new  three-story  brick  hotel,  managed  by  a  very 
brisk  young  man,  who  is  shrewd  enough  to  advertise 
in  the  newspapers  of  the  neighboring  towns  that  he 
has  "  special  accommodations  and  special  rates  for 
commercial  travellers."  Although  Hillsborough  is 
comparatively  a  small  town,  it  is  the  centre  of  a  very 
productive  region,  and  its  trade  is  somewhat  impor- 
tant. Consequently,  the  commercial  travellers,  with 
characteristic  energy,  lose  no  opportunity  of  taking 
advantage  of  the  hospitable  invitation  of  the  land- 
lord of  the  Hillsborough  hotel. 

Not  many  years  ago  a  representative  of  this  class 
visited  the  old  town.  He  was  from  the  North,  and, 
being  much  interested  in  what  he  saw,  was  duly 
inquisitive.  Among  other  things  that  attracted  his 
attention  was  a  little  one-armed  man  who  seemed  to 
be  the  life  of  the  place.     He  was  here,  there,  and 


22  Little  Compton. 

everywhere ;  and  wherever  he  went  the  atmosphere 
seemed  to  lighten  and  brighten.  Sometimes  he  was 
flying  around  town  in  a  buggy ;  at  such  times  he 
was  driven  by  a  sweet-faced  lady,  whose  smiling  air 
of  proprietorship  proclaimed  her  to  be  his  wife :  but 
more  often  he  was  on  foot.  His  cheerfulness  and 
good  humor  were  infectious.  The  old  men  sitting 
at  Perdue's  Corner,  where  they  had  been  gathering 
for  forty  years  and  more,  looked  up  and  laughed  as 
he  passed  ;  the  ladies  shopping  in  the  streets  paused 
to  chat  with  him  ;  and  even  the  dry-goods  clerks  and 
lawyers,  playing  chess  or  draughts  under  the  China- 
trees  that  shaded  the  sidewalks,  were  willing  to  be 
interrupted  long  enough  to  exchange  jokes  with  him. 

"Rather  a  lively  chap  that,"  said  the  observant 
commercial  traveller. 

"  Well,  I  reckon  you  won't  find  no  livelier  in  these 
diggin's,"  replied  the  landlord,  to  whom  the  remark 
was  addressed.  There  was  a  suggestion  of  sup- 
pressed local  pride  in  his  tones.  "  He's^  a  little 
chunk  of  a  man,  but  he's  monst'us  peart." 

"A  colonel,  I  guess,"  said  the  stranger,  smiling. 

"Oh,  no,"  the  other  rejoined.  "He  ain't  no 
colonel,  but  he'd  'a'  made  a  prime  one.  It's  mighty 
curious  to  me,"  he  went  on,  "that  them  Yankees  up 
there  didn't  make  him  one." 

"The  Yankees?"  inquired  the  commercial  trav- 
eller. 

"  Why,  yes,"  said  the  landlord.     "  He's  a  Yankee ; 


Little  Compton.  23 

and  that  lady  you  seen  drivin'  him  around,  she's  a 
Yankee.  He  courted  her  here  and  he  married  her 
here.  Major  Jimmy  Bass  wanted  him  to  marry 
her  in  his  house,  but  Capt.  Jack  Walthall  put  his  foot 
down  and  said  the  weddin'  had  to  be  in  his  house ; 
and  there's  where  it  was,  in  that  big  white  house 
over  yander  with  the  hip  roof.     Yes,  sir." 

"  Oh,"  said  the  commercial  traveller,  with  a  cyni- 
cal smile,  "  he  staid  down  here  to  keep  out  of  the 
army.     He  was  a  lucky  fellow." 

"  Well,  I  reckon  he  was  lucky  not  to  get  killed," 
said  the  landlord,  laughing.  "  He  fought  with  the 
Yankees,  and  they  do  say  that  Little  Compton  was 
a  rattler." 

The  commercial  traveller  gave  a  long,  low  whistle, 
expressive  of  his  profound  astonishment.  And  yet, 
under  all  the  circumstances,  there  was  nothing  to 
create  astonishment.  The  lively  little  man  had  a 
history. 

Among  the  genial  and  popular  citizens  of  Hills- 
borough, in  the  days  before  the  war,  none  were 
more  genial  or  more  popular  than  Little  Compton. 
He  was  popular  with  all  classes,  with  old  and 
with  young,  with  whites  and  with  blacks.  He  was 
sober,  discreet,  sympathetic,  and  generous.  He  was 
neither  handsome  nor  magnetic.  He  was  awkward 
and  somewhat  bashful,  but  his  manners  and  his  con- 
versation had  the  rare  merit  of  spontaneity.  His 
sallow  face  was  unrelieved  by  either  mustache  or 


24  Little  Compton. 

whiskers,  and  his  eyes  were  black  and  very  small, 
but  they  glistened  with  good-humor  and  sociability. 
He  was  somewhat  small  in  stature,  and  for  that 
reason  the  young  men  about  Hillsborough  had  given 
him  the  name  of  Little  Compton. 

Little  Compton's  introduction  to  Hillsborough  was 
not  wholly  without  suggestive  incidents.  He  made 
his  appearance  there  in  1850,  and  opened  a  small 
grocery  store.  Thereupon  the  young  men  of  the 
town,  with  nothing  better  to  do  than  to  seek  such 
amusement  as  they  could  find  in  so  small  a  commu- 
nity, promptly  proceeded  to  make  him  the  victim  of 
their  pranks  and  practical  jokes.  Little  Compton's 
forbearance  was  wonderful.  He  laughed  heartily 
when  he  found  his  modest  signboard  hanging  over 
an  adjacent  bar-room,  and  smiled  good-humoredly 
when  he  found  the  sidewalk  in  front  of  his  door 
barricaded  with  barrels  and  dry-goods  boxes.  An 
impatient  man  would  have  looked  on  these  things  as 
in  the  nature  of  indignities,  but  Little  Compton  was 
not  an  impatient  man. 

This  went  on  at  odd  intervals,  until  at  last  the 
fun-loving  young  men  began  to  appreciate  Little 
Compton's  admirable  temper ;  and  then  for  a  season 
they  played  their  jokes  on  other  citizens,  leaving 
Little  Compton  entirely  unmolested.  These  young 
men  were  boisterous,  but  good-natured,  and  they 
had  their  own  ideas  of  what  constituted  fair  play. 
They  were   ready  to   fight  or  to   have  fun,  but  in 


Little  Compton.  25 

neither  case  would  they  willingly  take  what  they 
considered  a  mean  advantage  of  a  man. 

By  degrees  they  warmed  to  Little  Compton.  His 
gentleness  won  upon  them  ;  his  patient  good-humor 
attracted  them.  Without  taking  account  of  the 
matter,  the  most  of  them  became  his  friends.  This 
was  demonstrated  one  day  when  one  of  the  Pulliam 
boys,  from  Jasper  County,  made  some  slurring  re- 
mark about  "the  little  Yankee."  As  Pulliam  was 
somewhat  in  his  cups,  no  attention  was  paid  to  his 
remark ;  whereupon  he  followed  it  up  with  others  of 
a  more  seriously  abusive  character.  Little  Compton 
was  waiting  on  a  customer  ;  but  Pulliam  was  stand- 
ing in  front  of  his  door,  and  he  could  not  fail  to 
hear  the  abuse.  Young  Jack  Walthall  was  sitting 
in  a  chair  near  the  door,  whittling  a  piece  of  white 
pine.  He  put  his  knife  in  his  pocket,  and,  whistling 
softly,  looked  at  Little  Compton  curiously.  Then 
he  walked  to  where  Pulliam  was  standing. 

"  If  I  were  you,  Pulliam,"  he  said,  "  and  wanted 
to  abuse  anybody,  I'd  pick  out  a  bigger  man  than 
that." 

"  I  don't  see  anybody,"  said  Pulliam. 

"Well,  d you  !"  exclaimed  Walthall,  "if  you 

are  that  blind,  I'll  open  your  eyes  for  you  !  " 

Whereupon  he  knocked  Pulliam  down.  At  this 
Little  C  jmpton  ran  out  excitedly,  and  it  was  the 
impression  of  the  spectators  that  he  intended  to 
attack  the  man  who  had  been  abusing  him  ;   but, 


26  Little  Compton. 

instead  of  that,  he  knelt  over  the  prostrate  bully, 
wiped  the  blood  from  his  eyes,  and  finally  succeeded 
in  getting  him  to  his  feet.  Then  Little  Compton 
assisted  him  into  the  store,  placed  him  in  a  chair, 
and  proceeded  to  bandage  his  wounded  eye.  Wal- 
thall, looking  on  with  an  air  of  supreme  indifference, 
uttered  an  exclamation  of  astonishment,  and  saun- 
tered carelessly  away. 

Sauntering  back  an  hour  or  so  afterward,  he  found 
that  Pulliam  was  still  in  Little  Compton's  store. 
He  would  have  passed  on,  but  Little  Compton  called 
to  him.  He  went  in  prepared  to  be  attacked,  for  he 
knew  Pulliam  to  be  one  of  the  most  dangerous  men 
in  that  region,  and  the  most  revengeful ;  but,  instead 
of  making  an  attack,  Pulliam  offered  his  hand. 

"  Let's  call  it  square,  Jack.  Your  mother  and  my 
father  are  blood  cousins,  and  I  don't  want  any  bad 
feelings  to  grow  out  of  this  racket.  I've  apologized 
to  Mr.  Compton  here,  and  now  I'm  ready  to  apolo- 
gize to  you." 

Walthall  looked  at  Pulliam  and  at  his  proffered 
hand,  and  then  looked  at  Little  Compton.  The  lat- 
ter was  smiling  pleasantly.  This  appeared  to  be 
satisfactory,  and  Walthall  seized  his  kinsman's  hand, 
and  exclaimed, — 

"  Well,  by  George,  Miles  Pulliam !  if  you've  apol- 
ogized to  Little  Compton,  then  it's  my  turn  to 
apologize  to  you.  Maybe  I  was  too  quick  with  my 
hands,  but  that  chap  there  is  such  a  d clever 


Little  Compton.  27 

little  rascal,  that  it  works  me  up  to  see  anybody 
pester  him." 

"Why,  Jack,"  said  Compton,  his  little  eyes  glis- 
tening, "I'm  not  such  a  scrap  as  you  make  out.  It's 
just  your  temper,  Jack.  Your  temper  runs  clean 
away  with  your  judgment." 

"  My  temper !  Why,  good  Lord,  man !  don't  I 
just  sit  right  down,  and  let  folks  run  over  me  when- 
ever they  want  to  ?  Would  I  have  done  any  thing 
if  Miles  Pulliam  had  abused  me?" 

"  Why,  the  gilded  Queen  of  Sheba !  "  exclaimed 
Miles  Pulliam,  laughing  loudly,  in  spite  of  his 
bruises;  "only  last  sale-day  you  mighty  nigh  jolted 
the  life  out  of  Bill-Tom  Saunders,  with  the  big  end 
of  a  hickory  stick." 

"That's  so,"  said  Walthall  reflectively;  "but  did 
I  follow  him  up  to  do  it  ?  Wasn't  he  dogging  after 
me  all  day,  and  strutting  around  bragging  about 
what  he  was  going  to  do  ?  Didn't  I  play  the  little 
stray  lamb  till  he  rubbed  his  fist  in  my  face  ?  " 

The  others  laughed.  They  knew  that  Jack  Wal- 
thall wasn't  at  all  lamblike  in  his  disposition.  He 
was  tall  and  strong  and  handsome,  with  pale  classic 
features,  jet-black  curling  hair,  and  beautiful  white 
hands  that  never  knew  what  labor  was.  He  was 
something  of  a  dandy  in  Hillsborough,  but  in  a 
large,  manly*  generous  way.  With  his  perfect  man- 
ners, stately  and  stiff,  or  genial  and  engaging,  as 
occasion  might  demand,  Mr.  Walthall  was  just  such 


28  Little  Compton. 

a  romantic  figure  as  one  reads  about  in  books,  or  as 
one  expects  to  see  step  from  behind  the  wings  of 
the  stage  with  a  guitar  or  a  long  dagger.  Indeed, 
he  was  the  veritable  original  of  Cyrille  Brandon,  the 
hero  of  Miss  Amelia  Baxter's  elegant  novel  entitled 
"  The  Haunted  Manor  ;  or,  Souvenirs  of  the  Sunny 
Southland."  If  those  who  are  fortunate  enough  to 
possess  a  copy  of  this  graphic  book,  which  was 
printed  in  Charleston  for  the  author,  will  turn  to 
the  description  of  Cyrille  Brandon,  they  will  get 
a  much  better  idea  of  Mr.  Walthall  than  they  can 
hope  to  get  in  this  brief  and  imperfect  chronicle. 
It  is  true,  the  picture  there  drawn  is  somewhat 
exaggerated  to  suit  the  purposes  of  fictive  art,  but  it 
shows  perfectly  the  serious  impression  Mr.  Walthall 
made  on  the  ladies  who  were  his  contemporaries. 

It  is  only  fair  to  say,  however,  that  the  real  Mr. 
Walthall  was  altogether  different  from  the  ideal 
Cyrille  Brandon  of  Miss  Baxter's  powerfully  written 
book.  He  was  by  no  means  ignorant  of  the  impres- 
sion he  made  on  the  fair  sex,  and  he  was  somewhat 
proud  of  it ;  but  he  had  no  romantic  ideas  of  his 
own.  He  was,  in  fact,  a  very  practical  young  man. 
When  the  Walthall  estate,  composed  of  thousands 
of  acres  of  land  and  several  hundred  healthy,  well- 
fed  negroes,  was  divided  up,  he  chose  to  take  his 
portion  in  money ;  and  this  he  loaned  out  at  a  fair 
interest  to  those  who  were  in  need  of  ready  cash. 
This  gave  him  large  leisure ;  and,  as  was  the  custom 


Little  Compton.  29 

among  the  young  men  of  leisure,  he  gambled  a  little 
when  the  humor  was  on  him,  having  the  judgment 
and  the  nerve  to  make  the  game  of  poker  exceed- 
ingly interesting  to  those  who  sat  with  him  at  table. 

No  one  could  ever  explain  why  the  handsome  and 
gallant  Jack  Walthall  should  go  so  far  as  to  stand 
between  his  own  cousin  and  Little  Compton ;  indeed, 
no  one  tried  to  explain  it.  The  fact  was  accepted 
for  what  it  was  worth,  and  it  was  a  great  deal  to 
Little  Compton  in  a  social  and  business  way.  After 
the  row  which  has  just  been  described,  Mr.  Walthall 
was  usually  to  be  found  at  Compton's  store,  — in  the 
summer  sitting  in  front  of  the  door  under  the  grate- 
ful shade  of  the  China-trees,  and  in  the  winter  sitting 
by  the  comfortable  fire  that  Compton  kept  burning 
in  his  back  room.  As  Mr.  Walthall  was  the  recog- 
nized leader  of  the  young  men,  Little  Compton's 
store  soon  became  the  headquarters  for  all  of  them. 
They  met  there,  and  they  made  themselves  at  home 
there,  introducing  their  affable  host  to  many  queer 
antics  and  capers  peculiar  to  the  youth  of  that  day 
and  time,  and  to  the  social  organism  of  which  that 
youth  was  the  .outcome. 

That  Little  Compton  enjoyed  their  company,  is 
certain;  but  it  is  doubtful  if  he  entered  heartily 
into  the  plans  of  their  escapades,  which  they  freely 
discussed  around  his  hearth.  Perhaps  it  was  be- 
cause he  had  outlived  the  folly  of  youth.  Though 
his  face  was  smooth  and  round,  and  his  eye  bright, 


30  Little  Compton. 

Little  Compton  bore  the  marks  of  maturity  and  ex- 
perience. He  used  to  laugh,  and  say  that  he  was 
born  in  New  Jersey,  and  died  there  when  he  was 
young.  What  significance  this  statement  possessed, 
no  one  ever  knew  ;  probably  no  one  in  Hillsborough 
cared  to  know.  The  people  of  that  town  had  their 
own  notions  and  their  own  opinions.  They  were  not 
unduly  inquisitive,  save  when  their  inquisitiveness 
seemed  to  take  a  political  shape ;  and  then  it  was 
somewhat  aggressive. 

There  were  a  great  many  things  in  Hillsborough 
likely  to  puzzle  a  stranger.  Little  Compton  observed 
that  the  young  men,  no  matter  how  young  they 
might  be,  were  absorbed  in  politics.  They  had  the 
political  history  of  the  country  at  their  tongues' 
ends,  and  the  discussions  they  carried  on  were  inter- 
minable. This  interest  extended  to  all  classes  :  the 
planters  discussed  politics  with  their  overseers ;  and 
lawyers,  merchants,  tradesmen,  and  gentlemen  of 
elegant  leisure,  discussed  politics  with  each  other. 
Schoolboys  knew  all  about  the  Missouri  Compro- 
mise, the  fugitive-slave  law,  and  States  rights.  Some- 
times the  arguments  used  were  more  substantial  than 
mere  words,  but  this  was  only  when  some  old  feud 
was  back  of  the  discussion.  There  was  one  ques- 
tion, as  Little  Compton  discovered,  in  regard  to 
which  there  was  no  discussion.  That  question  was 
slavery.  It  loomed  up  everywhere  and  in  every 
thing,  and  was  the  basis  of  all  the  arguments,  and 


Little  Compton.  31 

yet  it  was  not  discussed  :  there  was  no  room  for 
discussion.  There  was  but  one  idea,  and  that  was 
that  slavery  must  be  defended  at  all  hazards,  and 
against  all  enemies.  That  was  the  temper  of  the 
time,  and  Little  Compton  was  not  long  in  discover- 
ing that  of  all  dangerous  issues  slavery  was  the 
most  dangerous. 

The  young  men,  in  their  free-and-easy  way,  told 
him  the  story  of  a  wayfarer  who  once  came  through 
that  region  preaching  abolitionism  to  the  negroes. 
The  negroes  themselves  betrayed  him,  and  he  was 
promptly  taken  in  charge.  His  body  was  found 
afterward  hanging  in  the  woods,  and  he  was  buried 
at  the  expense  of  the  county.  Even  his  name  had 
been  forgotten,  and  his  grave  was  all  but  obliterated. 
All  these  things  made  an  impression  on  Little  Comp- 
ton's  mind.  The  tragedy  itself  was  recalled  by  one 
of  the  pranks  of  the  young  men,  that  was  conceived 
and  carried  out  under  his  eyes.  It  happened  after 
he  had  become  well  used  to  the  ways  of  Hillsbor- 
ough. There  came  a  stranger  to  the  town,  whose 
queer  acts  excited  the  suspicions  of  a  naturally 
suspicious  community.  Professedly  he  was  a  colpor- 
teur ;  but,  instead  of  trying  to  dispose  of  books  and 
tracts,  of  which  he  had  a  visible  supply,  he  devoted 
himself  to  arguing  with  the  village  politicians  under 
the  shade  of  the  trees.  It  was  observed,  also,  that 
he  would  frequently  note  down  observations  in  a 
memorandum-book.     Just  about  that  time  the  con- 


32  Little  Compton. 

troversy  between  the  slaveholders  and  the  abolition- 
ists was  at  its  height.  John  Brown  had  made  his 
raid  on  Harper's  Ferry,  and  there  was  a  good  deal  of 
excitement  throughout  the  South.  It  was  rumored 
that  Brown  had  emissaries  travelling  from  State  to 
State,  preparing  the  negroes  for  insurrection ;  and 
every  community,  even  Hillsborough,  was  on  the 
alert,  watching,  waiting,  suspecting. 

The  time  assuredly  was  not  auspicious  for  the 
stranger  with  the  ready  memorandum-book.  Sitting 
in  front  of  Compton's  store,  he  fell  into  conversation 
one  day  with  Uncle  Abner  Lazenberry,  a  patriarch 
who  lived  in  the  country,  and  who  had  a  habit  of 
coming  to  Hillsborough  at  least  once  a  week  to  "talk 
with  the  boys."  Uncle  Abner  belonged  to  the  poorer 
class  of  planters  ;  that  is  to  say,  he  had  a  small  farm 
and  not  more  than  half  a  dozen  negroes.  But  he 
was  decidedly  popular,  and  his  conversation  —  some- 
what caustic  at  times  —  was  thoroughly  enjoyed  by 
the  younger  generation.  On  this  occasion  he  had 
been  talking  to  Jack  Walthall,  when  the  stranger 
drew  a  chair  within  hearing  distance. 

"You  take  all  your  men,"  Uncle  Abner  was  say- 
ing—  "take  all  un  'em,  but  gimme  Hennery  Clay. 
Them  abolishioners,  they  may  come  an'  git  all  six  er 
my  niggers,  if  they'll  jess  but  lemme  keep  the  ginny- 
wine  ole  Whig  docterin'.  That's  me  up  an'  down  — 
that's  wher'  your  Uncle  Abner  Lazenberry  Stan's, 
boys."     By  this  time  the  stranger  had  taken  out  his 


Little  Compton.  33 

inevitable  note-book,  and  Uncle  Abner  went  on : 
"Yes,  siree !  You  may  jess  mark  me  down  that 
away.  '  Come,'  sez  I,  '  an'  take  all  my  niggers  an' 
the  ole  gray  mar','  sez  I,  '  but  lemme  keep  my  Whig 
docterin','  sez  I.  Lord,  I've  seed  sights  wi'  them 
niggers.  They  hain't  no  manner  account.  They 
won't  work,  an'  I'm  ablidge  to  feed  'em,  else  they'd 
whirl  in  an'  steal  from  the  neighbors.  Hit's  in-about 
broke  me  for  to  maintain  'em  in  the'r  laziness.  Bless 
your  soul,  little  childern  !  I'm  in  a  tumble  fix  —  a 
tumble  fix.  I'm  that  bankruptured  that  when  I 
come  to  town,  ef  I  fine  a  thrip  in  my  britches-pocket 
for  to  buy  me  a  dram.  I'm  the  happiest  mortal  in  the 
county.     Yes,  siree  !  hit's  got  down  to  that." 

Here  Uncle  Abner  Lazenberry  paused  and  eyed 
the  stranger  shrewdly,  to  whom,  presently,  he  ad- 
dressed himself  in  a  very  insinuating  tone  :  — 

"What  mought  be  your  name,  mister  ? " 

"Oh,"  said  the  stranger,  taken  somewhat  aback  by 
the  suddenness  of  the  question,  "  my  name  might  be 
Jones,  but  it  happens  to  be  Davies." 

Uncle  Abner  Lazenberry  stared  at  Davies  a 
moment  as  if  amazed,  and  then  exclaimed,  — 

"Jesso  !  Well,  dog  my  cats  ef  times  hain't 
a-changin'  an'  a-changin'  tell  bimeby  the  natchul 
world  an'  all  the  hummysp'eres  '11  make  the'r  dis- 
appearance een'-uppermost.  Yit,  whiles  they  er 
changin'  an'  a-disappearin',  I  hope  they'll  leave  me 
my  ole  Whig  docterin',  an'  my  name,  which  the  fust 


34  Little  Compton. 

an'  last  un  it  is  Abner  Lazenberry.  An'  more'n 
that,"  the  old  man  went  on,  with  severe  emphasis, — 
"  an'  more'n  that,  they  hain't  never  been  a  day  sence 
the  creation  of  the  world  an'  the  hummysp'eres  when 
my  name  mought  er  been  any  thing  else  under  the 
shinin'  sun  but  Abner  Lazenberry  ;  an'  ef  the  time's 
done  come  when  any  mortal  name  mought  er  been 
any  thing  but  what  hit  reely  is,  then  we  jess  better 
turn  the  nation  an'  the  federation  over  to  demock- 
eracy  an'  giner'l  damnation.  Now  that's  me,  right 
pine-plank." 

By  way  of  emphasizing  his  remarks,  Uncle  Abner 
brought  the  end  of  his  hickory  cane  down  upon  the 
ground  with  a  tremendous  thump.  The  stranger 
reddened  a  little  at  the  unexpected  criticism,  and  was 
evidently  ill  at  ease,  but  he  remarked  politely,  — 

"This  is  just  a  saying  I've  picked  up  somewhere 
in  my  travels.  My  name  is  Davies,  and  I  am  travel- 
ing through  the  country  selling  a  few  choice  books, 
and  picking  up  information  as  I  go." 

"I  know  a  mighty  heap  of  Davises,"  said  Uncle 
Abner,  "  but  I  disremember  of  anybody  name 
Davies." 

"Well,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Davies,  "the  name  is  not 
uncommon  in  my  part  of  the  country.  I  am  from 
Vermont." 

"Well,  well!"  said  Uncle  Abner,  tapping  the 
ground  thoughtfully  with  his  cane.  "  A  mighty  fur 
ways  Vermont  is,  tooby  shore.     In  my  day  an'  time 


Little  Compton.  35 

I've  seed  as  many  as  three  men  folks  from  Vermont, 
an'  one  un  'em,  he  wuz  a  wheelwright,  an'  one  wuz 
a  tin-peddler,  an'  the  yuther  one  wuz  a  clock-maker. 
But  that  wuz  a  long  time  ago.  How  is  the  abolish- 
ioners  gittin'  on  up  that  away,  an'  when  in  the  name 
er  patience  is  they  a-comin'  arter  my  niggers  ?  Lord  ! 
if  them  niggers  wuz  free,  I  wouldn't  have  to  slave  for 
'em." 

"Well,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Davies,  "I  take  little  or  no 
interest  in  those  things.  I  have  to  make  a  humble 
living,  and  I  leave  political  questions  to  the  politi- 
cians." 

The  conversation  was  carried  on  at  some  length, 
the  younger  men  joining  in  occasionally  to  ask  ques- 
tions ;  and  nothing  could  have  been  friendlier  than 
their  attitude  toward  Mr.  Davies.  They  treated  him 
with  the  greatest  consideration.  His  manner  and 
speech  were  those  of  an  educated  man,  and  he 
seemed  to  make  himself  thoroughly  agreeable.  But 
that  night,  as  Mr.  Jack  Walthall  was  about  to  go  to 
bed,  his  body-servant,  a  negro  named  Jake,  began 
to  question  him  about  the  abolitionists. 

"What  do  you  know  about  abolitionists?"  Mr. 
Walthall  asked  with  some  degree  of  severity. 

"Nothin'  'tall,  Marse  Jack,  'cep'in'  w'at  dish  yer 
new  w'ite  man  down  dar  at  de  tavern  say." 

"  And  what  did  he  say  ?  "  Mr.  Walthall  inquired. 

"  I  ax  'im,  I  say,  '  Marse  Boss,  is  dese  yer  boboli- 
tionists  got  horns  en  huffs  ? '  en  he  'low,  he  did,  dat 


36  Little  Compton. 

dey  ain't  no  bobolitionists,  kaze  dey  er  babolitionists, 
an'  dey  ain't  got  needer  horns  ner  huffs." 

"What  else  did  he  say  ?  " 

Jake  laughed.  It  was  a  hearty  and  humorous 
laugh. 

"Well,  sir,"  he  replied,  "  dat  man  des  preached. 
He  sholy  did.  He  ax  me  ef  de  niggers  'roun'  yer 
wouldn'  all  like  ter  be  free,  en  I  tole  'im  I  don't  speck 
dey  would,  kase  all  de  free  niggers  w'at  I  ever  seed 
is  de  mos'  no-'countes'  niggers  in  de  Ian'." 

Mr.  Walthall  dismissed  the  negro  somewhat  curtlv. 
He  had  prepared  to  retire  for  the  night,  but  appar- 
ently thought  better  of  it,  for  he  resumed  his  coat 
and  vest,  and  went  out  into  the  cool  moonlight.  He 
walked  around  the  public  square,  and  finally  perched 
himself  on  the  stile  that  led  over  the  court-house 
enclosure.  He  sat  there  a  long  time.  Little  Comp- 
ton passed  by,  escorting  Miss  Lizzie  Fairleigh,  the 
schoolmistress,  home  from  some  social  gathering ; 
and  finally  the  lights  in  the  village  went  out  one  by 
one  —  all  save  the  one  that  shone  in  the  window  of 
the  room  occupied  by  Mr.  Davies.  Watching  this 
window  somewhat  closely,  Mr.  Jack  Walthall  ob- 
served that  there  was  movement  in  the  room.  Shad- 
ows played  on  the  white  window-curtains — human 
shadows  passing  to  and  fro.  The  curtains,  quivering 
in  the  night  wind,  distorted  these  shadows,  and  made 
confusion  of  them ;  but  the  wind  died  away  for  a 
moment,  and,  outlined  on  the  curtains,  the  patient 


Little  Compton.  37 

watcher  saw  a  silhouette  of  Jake,  his  body-servant 
Mr.  Walthall  beheld  the  spectacle  with  amazement. 
It  never  occurred  to  him  that  the  picture  he  saw  was 
part  —  the  beginning  indeed  —  of  a  tremendous  pan- 
orama which  would  shortly  engage  the  attention  of 
the  civilized  world,  but  he  gazed  at  it  with  a  feeling 
of  vague  uneasiness. 

The  next  morning  Little  Compton  was  somewhat 
surprised  at  the  absence  of  the  young  men  who  were 
in  the  habit  of  gathering  in  front  of  his  store.  Even 
Mr.  Jack  Walthall,  who  could  be  depended  on  to  tilt 
his  chair  against  the  China-tree  and  sit  there  for 
an  hour  or  more  after  breakfast,  failed  to  put  in  an 
appearance.  After  putting  his  store  to  rights,  and 
posting  up  some  accounts  left  over  from  the  day 
before,  Little  Compton  came  out  on  the  sidewalk, 
and  walked  up  and  down  in  front  of  the  door.  He 
was  in  excellent  humor,  and  as  he  walked  he  hummed 
a  tune.  He  did  not  lack  for  companionship,  for  his 
cat,  Tommy  Tinktums,  an  extraordinarily  large  one, 
followed  him  back  and  forth,  rubbing  against  him 
and  running  between  his  legs  ;  but  somehow  he  felt 
lonely.  The  town  was  very  quiet.  It  was  quiet  at 
all  times,  but  on  this  particular  morning  it  seemed  to 
Little  Compton  that  there  was  less  stir  than  usual. 
There  was  no  sign  of  life  anywhere  around  the 
public  square  save  at  Perdue's  Corner.  Shading  his 
eyes  with  his  hand,  Little  Compton  observed  a  group 
of  citizens  apparently  engaged  in  a  very  interesting 


38  Little  Compton. 

discussion.  Among  them  he  recognized  the  tall 
form  of  Mr.  Jack  Walthall  and  the  somewhat  ponder- 
ous presence  of  Major  Jimmy  Bass.  Little  Compton 
watched  the  group  because  he  had  nothing  better  to 
do.  He  saw  Major  Jimmy  Bass  bring  the  end  of  his 
cane  down  upon  the  ground  with  a  tremendous  thump, 
and  gesticulate  like  a  man  laboring  under  strong 
excitement ;  but  this  was  nothing  out  of  the  ordi- 
nary, for  Major  Jimmy  had  been  known  to  get  excited 
over  the  most  trivial  discussion  ;  on  one  occasion, 
indeed,  he  had  even  mounted  a  dry-goods  box,  and, 
as  the  boys  expressed  it,  "  cussed  out  the  town." 

Still  watching  the  group,  Little  Compton  saw 
Mr.  Jack  Walthall  take  Buck  Ransome  by  the  arm, 
and  walk  across  the  public  square  in  the  direction 
of  the  court-house.  They  were  followed  by  Mr. 
Alvin  Cozart,  Major  Jimmy  Bass,  and  young  Rowan 
Wornum.  They  went  to  the  court-house  stile,  and 
formed  a  little  group,  while  Mr.  Walthall  appeared 
to  be  explaining  something,  pointing  frequently  in 
the  direction  of  the  tavern.  In  a  little  while  they 
returned  to  those  they  had  left  at  Perdue's  Corner, 
where  they  were  presently  joined  by  a  number  of 
other  citizens.  Once  Little  Compton  thought  he 
would  lock  his  door  and  join  them,  but  by  the  time 
he  had  made  up  his  mind  the  group  had  dispersed. 

A  little  later  on,  Compton's  curiosity  was  more 
thanN  satisfied.  One  of  the  young  men,  Buck  Ran- 
some, came  into  Compton's  store,  bringing  a  queer- 


Little  Compton.  39 

looking  bundle.  Unwrapping  it,  Mr.  Ransome 
brought  to  view  two  large  pillows.  Whistling  a  gay 
tune,  he  ran  his  keen  knife  into  one  of  these,  and  felt 
of  the  feathers.  His  manner  was  that  of  an  expert. 
The  examination  seemed  to  satisfy  him  ;  for  he  rolled 
the  pillows  into  a  bundle  again,  and  deposited  them 
in  the  back  part  of  the  store. 

"  You'd  be  a  nice  housekeeper,  Buck,  if  you  did  all 
your  pillows  that  way,"  said  Compton. 

"Why,  bless  your  great  big  soul,  Compy,"  said 
Mr.  Ransome,  striking  an  attitude,  "I'm  the  finest  in 
the  land." 

Just  then  Mr.  Alvin  Cozart  came  in,  bearing  a 
small  bucket,  which  he  handled  very  carefully.  Little 
Compton  thought  he  detected  the  odor  of  tar. 

"  Stick  her  in  the  back  room  there,"  said  Mr. 
Ransome;  "she'll  keep." 

Compton  was  somewhat  mystified  by  these  pro- 
ceedings ;  but  every  thing  was  made  clear  when,  an 
hour  later,  the  young  men  of  the  town,  re-enforced 
by  Major  jimmy  Bass,  marched  into  his  store,  bring- 
ing with  them  Mr.  Davies,  the  Vermont  colporteur, 
who  had  been  flourishing  his  note-book  in  the  faces 
of  the  inhabitants.  Jake,  Mr.  Walthall's  body-ser- 
vant, was  prominent  in  the  crowd  by  reason  of  his 
color  and  his  frightened  appearance.  The  colpor- 
teur was  very  pale,  but  he  seemed  to  be  cool.  As 
the  last  one  filed  in,  Mr.  Walthall  stepped  to  the 
front  door  and   shut  and  locked  it.     Compton  was 


40  Little  Co  nip  ton. 

too  amazed  to  say  any  thing.  The  faces  before  him, 
always  so  full  of  humor  and  fun,  were  serious  enough 
now.  As  the  key  turned  in  the  lock,  the  colporteur 
found  his  voice. 

"  Gentlemen !  "  he  exclaimed  with  some  show  of 
indignation,  "what  is  the  meaning  of  this?  What 
would  you  do  ?  " 

"You  know  mighty  well,  sir,  what  we  ought  to 
do,"  cried  Major  Bass.  "We  ought  to  hang  you, 
you  imperdent  scounderl  !  A-comin'  down  here 
a-pesterin'  an'  a-meddlin'  with  t'other  people's  busi- 
ness." 

"  Why,  gentlemen,"  said  Davies,  "  I'm  a  peaceable 
citizen  ;  I  trouble  nobody.  I  am  simply  travelling 
through  the  country  selling  books  to  those  who  are 
able  to  buy,  and  giving  them  away  to  those  who 
are  not." 

"Mr.  Davies,"  said  Mr.  Jack  Walthall,  leaning 
gracefully  against  the  counter,  "what  kind  of  books 
are  you  selling  ?  " 

"Religious  books,  sir." 

"Jake  ! "  exclaimed  Mr.  Walthall  somewhat  sharply, 
so  sharply,  indeed,  that  the  negro  jumped  as  though 
he  had  been  shot.  "  Jake !  stand  out  there.  Hold 
up  your  head,  sir !  —  Mr.  Davies,  how  many  religious 
books  did  you  sell  to  that  nigger  there  last  night  ? " 

"  I  sold  him  none,  sir  ;  I  "  — 

"  How  many  did  you  try  to  sell  him  ?  " 

"  I   made   no  attempt  to   sell  him  any  books  ;    I 


Little  Campion.  41 

knew  he  couldn't  read.  I  merely  asked  him  to  give 
me  some  information." 

Major  Jimmy  Bass  scowled  dreadfully  ;  but  Mr. 
Jack  Walthall  smiled  pleasantly,  and  turned  to  the 
negro. 

"Jake  !  do  you  know  this  man  ?  " 

"  I  seed  'im,  Marse  Jack ;  I  des  seed  'im ;  dat's  all 
I  know  'bout  'im." 

"  What  were  you  doing  sasshaying  around  in  his 
room  last  night  ?  " 

Jake  scratched  his  head,  dropped  his  eyes,  and 
shuffled  about  on  the  floor  with  his  feet.  All  eyes 
were  turned  on  him.  He  made  so  long  a  pause  that 
Alvin  Cozart  remarked  in  his  drawling  tone,  — 

"Jack,  hadn't  we  better  take  this  nigger  over  to 
the  calaboose  ? " 

"Not  yet,"  said  Mr.  Walthall  pleasantly.  "If  I 
have  to  take  him  over  there  I'll  not  bring  him  back 
in  a  hurry." 

"  I  wuz  des  up  in  his  room  kaze  he  tole  me  fer  ter 
come  back  en  see  'im.  Name  er  God,  Marse  Jack, 
w'at  ail'  you  all  w'ite  folks  now?  " 

"  What  did  he  say  to  you  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Walthall. 

"  He  ax  me  w'at  make  de  niggers  stay  in  slave'y," 
said  the  frightened  negro ;  "  he  ax  me  w'at  de  reason 
dey  don't  git  free  deyse'f." 

"He  was  warm  after  information,"  Mr.  Walthall 
suggested. 

"Call  it  what  you  please,"  said  the  Vermont  col- 


42  -  Little  Comptoii. 

porteur.  "  I  asked  him  those  questions  and  more." 
He  was  pale,  but  he  no  longer  acted  like  a  man 
troubled  with  fear. 

"Oh,  we  know  that,  mister,"  said  Buck  Ransome. 
"  We  know  what  you  come  for,  and  we  know  what 
you're  goin'  away  for.  We'll  excuse  you  if  you'll 
excuse  us,  and  then  there'll  be  no  hard  feelin's  — 
that  is,  not  many  ;  none  to  growl  about.  —  Jake,  hand 
me  that  bundle  there  on  the  barrel,  and  fetch  that 
tar-bucket.  —  You've  got  the  makin'  of  a  mighty  fine 
bird  in  you,  mister,"  Ransome  went  on,  addressing 
the  colporteur;  "all  you  lack's  the  feathers,  and 
we've  got  oodles  of  'em  right  here.  Now,  will  you 
shuck  them  duds  ? " 

For  the  first  time  the  fact  dawned  on  Little 
Compton's  mind,  that  the  young  men  were  about  to 
administer  a  coat  of  tar  and  feathers  to  the  stranger 
from  Vermont ;  and  he  immediately  began  to  protest. 

"Why,  Jack,"  said  he,  "what  has  the  man  done?" 

"Well,"  replied  Mr.  Walthall,  "you  heard  what 
the  nigger  said.  We  can't  afford  to  have  these 
abolitionists  preaching  insurrection  right  in  our  back 
yards.  We  just  can't  afford  it,  that's  the  long  and 
short  of  it.  Maybe  you  don't  understand  it  ;  maybe 
you  don't  feel  as  we  do ;  but  that's  the  way  the 
matter  stands.  We  are  in  a  sort  of  a  corner,  and 
we  are  compelled  to  protect  ourselves." 

"  I  don't  believe  in  no  tar  and  feathers  for  this 
chap,"    remarked    Major   Jimmy    Bass,   assuming   a 


Little  Compton.  ~     43 

judicial  air.     "He'll  just   go  out  here  to  the  town 
branch  and  wash  'em  off,  and  then  he'll  go  on  through 

the   plantations    raising   h among  the    niggers. 

That'll   be  the   upshot  of   it  —  now,  you    mark   my 
words.     He  ought  to  be  hung." 

"  Now,  boys,"  said  Little  Compton,  still  protesting, 
"  what  is  the  use  ?  This  man  hasn't  done  any  real 
harm.  He  might  preach  insurrection  around  here 
for  a  thousand  years,  and  the  niggers  wouldn't  listen 
to  him.  Now,  you  know  that  yourselves.  Turn  the 
poor  devil  loose,  and  let  him  get  out  of  town.  Why, 
haven't  you  got  any  confidence  in  the  niggers  you've 
raised  yourselves  ? " 

"My  dear  sir,"  said  Rowan  Wornum,  in  his  most 
insinuating  tone,  "we've  got  all  the  confidence  in 
the  world  in  the  niggers,  but  we  can't  afford  to  take 
any  risks.  Why,  my  dear  sir,"  he  went  on,  "if  we 
let  this  chap  go,  it  won't  be  six  months  before  the 
whole  country'll  be  full  of  this  kind.  Look  at  that 
Harper's  Ferry  business." 

"Well,"  said  Compton  somewhat  hotly,  "look  at 
it.  What  harm  has  been  done  ?  Has  there  been 
any  nigger  insurrection?" 

Jack  Walthall  laughed  good-naturedly.  "  Little 
Compton  is  a  quick  talker,  boys.  Let's  give  the  man 
the  benefit  of  all  the  arguments." 

"  Great  God  !     You  don't  mean  to  let  this  d 

rascal  go,  do  you,  Jack  ? "  exclaimed   Major  Jimmy 
Bass. 


44  Little  Compton. 

"  No,  no,  sweet  ancle ;  but  I've  got  a  nicer  dose 
than  tar  and  feathers." 

The  result  was  that  the  stranger's  face  and  hands 
were  given  a  coat  of  lampblack,  his  arms  were  tied 
to  his  body,  and  a  large  placard  was  fastened  to  his 
back.     The  placard  bore  this  inscription  : 


ABOLITIONIST! 
PASS    HIM    ON,    BOYS. 


Mr.  Davies  was  a  pitiful-looking  object  after  the 
young  men  had  plastered  his  face  and  hands  with 
lampblack  and  oil,  and  yet  his  appearance  bore  a 
certain  queer  relation  to  the  humorous  exhibitions 
one  sees  on  the  negro  minstrel  stage.  Particularly 
was  this  the  case  when  he  smiled  at  Compton. 

"  By  George,  boys  !  "  exclaimed  Mr.  Buck  Ransome, 
"this  chap  could  play  Old  Bob  Ridley  at  the  circus." 

When  every  thing  was  arranged  to  suit  them,  the 
young  men  formed  a  procession,  and  marched  the 
blackened  stranger  from  Little  Compton's  door  into 
the  public  street.  Little  Compton  seemed  to  be  very 
much  interested  in  the  proceeding.  It  was  remarked 
afterward,  that  he  seemed  to  be  very  much  agitated, 
and  that  he  took  a  position  very  near  the  placarded 
abolitionist.  The  procession,  as  it  moved  up  the 
street,  attracted  considerable  attention.  Rumors 
that  an  abolitionist  was  to  be  dealt  with  had  appar- 


Little  Compton.  45 

ently  been  circulated,  and  a  majority  of  the  male  in- 
habitants of  the  town  were  out  to  view  the  spectacle. 
The  procession  passed  entirely  around  the  public 
square,  of  which  the  court-house  was  the  centre,  and 
then  across  the  square  to  the  park-like  enclosure 
that  surrounded  the  temple  of  justice. 

As  the  young  men  and  their  prisoner  crossed  this 
open  space,  Major  Jimmy  Bass,  fat  as  he  was,  grew 
so  hilarious  that  he  straddled  his  cane  as  children  do 
broomsticks,  and  pretended  that  he  had  as  much  as 
he  could  do  to  hold  his  fiery  wooden  steed.  He 
waddled  and  pranced  out  in  front  of  the  abolitionist,, 
and  turned  and  faced  him,  whereat  his  steed  showed 
the  most  violent  symptoms  of  running  away.  The 
young  men  roared  with  laughter,  and  the  spectators 
roared  with  them,  and  even  the  abolitionist  laughed.. 
All  laughed  but  Little  Compton.  The  procession 
was  marched  to  the  court-house  enclosure,  and  there 
the  prisoner  was  made  to  stand  on  the  sale-block, 
so  that  all  might  have  a  fair  view  of  him.  He  was- 
kept  there  until  the  stage  was  ready  to  go ;  and 
then  he  was  given  a  seat  on  that  swaying  vehicle,, 
and  forwarded  to  Rockville,  where,  presumably,  the 
"boys"  placed  him  on  the  train  and  "passed  him 
on"  to  the  "boys  "  in  other  towns. 

For  months  thereafter  there  was  peace  in  Hills- 
borough, so  far  as  the  abolitionists  were  concerned  ; 
and  then  came  the  secession  movement.  A  majority 
of  the  citizens  of  the  little  town  were  strons:  Union 


46  Little  Compton. 

men ;  but  the  secession  movement  seemed  to  take 
even  the  oldest  off  their  feet,  and  by  the  time  the 
Republican  President  was  inaugurated,  the  Union 
sentiment  that  had  marked  Hillsborough  had  practi- 
cally disappeared.  In  South  Carolina  companies  of 
minute-men  had  been  formed,  and  the  entire  white 
male  population  was  wearing  blue  cockades.  V/ith 
some  modifications,  these  symptoms  were  reproduced 
in  Hillsborough.  The  modifications  were  that  a  few 
of  the  old  men  still  stood  up  for  the  Union,  and  that 
some  of  the  young  men,  though  they  wore  the  blue 
cockade,  did  not  align  themselves  with  the  minute- 
men. 

Little  Compton  took  no  part  in  these  proceedings. 
He  was  discreetly  quiet.  He  tended  his  store,  and 
smoked  his  pipe,  and  watched  events.  One  morning 
he  was  aroused  from  his  slumbers  by  a  tremendous 
crash,  — a  crash  that  rattled  the  windows  of  his  store 
and  shook  its  very  walls.  He  lay  quiet  a  while,  think- 
ing that  a  small  earthquake  had  been  turned  loose  on 
the  town.  Then  the  crash  was  repeated ;  and  he 
knew  that  Hillsborough  was  firing  a  salute  from  its 
little  six-pounder,  a  relic  of  the  Revolution,  that  had 
often  served  the  purpose  of  celebrating  the  nation's 
birthday  in  a  noisily  becoming  manner. 

Little  Compton  arose,  and  dressed  himself,  and 
prepared  to  put  his  store  in  order.  Issuing  forth  into 
the  street,  he  saw  that  the  town  was  in  considerable 
commotion.     A  citizen  who  had  been  in  attendance 


Little  Compton.  47 

on  the  convention  at  Milledgeville  had  arrived  during 
the  night,  bringing  the  information  that  the  ordinance 
of  secession  had  been  adopted,  and  that  Georgia  was 
now  a  sovereign  and  independent  government.  The 
original  secessionists  were  in  high  feather,  and  their 
hilarious  enthusiasm  had  its  effect  on  all  save  a  few 
of  the  Union  men. 

Early  as  it  was,  Little  Compton  saw  two  flags 
floating  from  an  improvised  flagstaff  on  top  of  the 
court-house.  One  was  the  flag  of  the  State,  with  its 
pillars,  its  sentinel,  and  its  legend  of  "  Wisdom,  Jus- 
tice, and  Moderation."  The  design  of  the  other  was. 
entirely  new  to  Little  Compton.  It  was  a  pine-tree  on 
a  field  of  white,  with  a  rattlesnake  coiled  at  its  roots, 
and  the  inscription,  "DON'T  TREAD  ON  ME!" 
A  few  hours  later  Uncle  Abner  Lazenberry  made  his 
appearance  in  front  of  Compton's  store.  He  had  just 
hitched  his  horse  to  the  rack  near  the  court-house. 

"Merciful  heavens  !  "  he  exclaimed,  wiping  his  red 
face  with  a  red  handkerchief,  "  is  the  Ole  Boy  done 
gone  an'  turned  hisself  loose  ?  I  hearn  the  racket, 
an'  I  sez  to  the  ole  woman,  sez  I,  '  I'll  fling  the  saddle 
on  the  gray  mar'  an'  canter  to  town  an'  see  what  in 
the  dingnation  the  matter  is.  An'  ef  the  worl's  about 
to  fetch  a  lurch,  I'll  git  me  another  dram  an'  die 
happy,'  sez  I.  Whar's  Jack  Walthall  ?  He  can  tell 
his  Uncle  Abner  all  about  it." 

"Well,  sir,"  said  Little  Compton.  "the  State  has 
seceded,  and  the  boys  are  celebrating." 


48  Little  Compton. 

"  I  know'd  it,"  cried  the  old  man  angrily.  "  My 
min'  tole  me  so."  Then  he  turned  and  looked  at  the 
flags  flying  from  the  top  of  the  court-house.  "  Is 
them  rags  the  things  they  er  gwine  to  fly  out'n  the 
Union  with  ?  "  he  exclaimed  scornfully.  "  Why,  bless 
your  soul  an'  body,  hit'll  take  bigger  wings  than 
them  !  Well,  sir,  I'm  sick ;  I  am  that  away.  I  wuz 
born  in  the  Union,  an'  I'd  like  mighty  well  to  die 
thar.  Ain't  it  mine  ?  ain't  it  our'n  ?  Jess  as  shore 
as  you're  born,  thar's  trouble  ahead  —  big  trouble. 
You're  from  the  North,  ain't  you?"  Uncle  Abner 
asked,  looking  curiously  at  Little  Compton. 

"Yes,  sir,  I  am,"  Compton  replied  ;  "that  is,  I  am 
from  New  Jersey,  but  they  say  New  Jersey  is  out  of 
the  Union." 

Uncle  Abner  did  not  respond  to  Compton's  smile. 
He  continued  to  gaze  at  him  significantly. 

"Well,"  the  old  man  remarked  somewhat  bluntly, 
"you  better  go  back  where  you  come  from.  You 
ain't  got  nothin'  in  the  roun'  worl'  to  do  with  all 
this  hellabaloo.  When  the  pinch  comes,  as  come  it 
must,  I'm  jes  gwine  to  swap  a  nigger  for  a  sack  er 
flour  an'  settle  down  ;  but  you  had  better  go  back 
where  you  come  from." 

Little  Compton  knew  the  old  man  was  friendly  ; 
but  his  words,  so  solemnly  and  significantly  uttered, 
made  a  deep  impression.  The  words  recalled  to 
Compton's  mind  the  spectacle  of  the  man  from 
Vermont  who  had  been  paraded  through  the  streets 


Little  Compton.  49 

of  Hillsborough,  with  his  face  blackened  and  a  pla- 
card on  his  back.  The  little  Jerseyman  also  recalled 
other  incidents,  some  of  them  trifling  enough,  but 
all  of  them  together  going  to  show  the  hot  temper 
of  the  people  around  him  ;  and  for  a  day  or  two  he 
brooded  rather  seriously  over  the  situation.  He 
knew  that  the  times  were  critical. 

For  several  weeks  the  excitement  in  Hillsborough, 
as  elsewhere  in  the  South,  continued  to  run  high. 
The  blood  of  the  people  was  at  fever  heat.  The  air 
was  full  of  the  portents  and  premonitions  of  war. 
Drums  were  beating,  flags  were  flying,  and  military 
companies  were  parading.  Jack  Walthall  had  raised 
a  company,  and  it  had  gone  into  camp  in  an  old  field 
near  the  town.  The  tents  shone  snowy  white  in  the 
sun,  the  uniforms  of  the  men  were  bright  and  gay, 
and  the  boys  thought  this  was  war.  But,  instead  of 
that,  they  were  merely  enjoying  a  holiday.  The 
ladies  of  the  town  sent  them  wagon-loads  of  pro- 
visions every  day,  and  the  occasion  was  a  veritable 
picnic,  —  a  picnic  that  some  of  the  young  men  re- 
membered a  year  or  two  later  when  they  were  trudg- 
ing ragged,  barefooted,  and  hungry,  through  the 
snow  and  slush  of  a  Virginian  winter. 

But,  with  all  their  drilling  and  parading  in  the 
peaceful  camp  at  Hillsborough,  the  young  men  had 
many  idle  hours,  and  they  devoted  these  to  various 
forms  of  amusements.  On  one  occasion,  after  they 
had  exhausted  their  ingenuity  in  search  of  entertain- 


50  Little  Compton. 

ment,  one  of  them,  Lieut.  Buck  Ransome,  suggested 
that  it  might  be  interesting  to  get  up  a  joke  on 
Little  Compton. 

"  But  how  ?  "  askecl  Lieut.  Cozart. 

"Why,  the  easiest  in  the  world,"  said  Lieut. 
Ransome.  "Write  him  a  note,  and  tell  him  that 
the  time  has  come  for  an  English-speaking  people  to 
take  sides,  and  fling  in  a  kind  of  side-wiper  about 
New  Jersey." 

Capt.  Jack  Walthall,  leaning  comfortably  against 
a  huge  box  that  was  supposed  to  bear  some  relation 
to  a  camp-chest,  blew  a  cloud  of  smoke  through  his 
sensitive  nostrils  and  laughed.  "  Why,  stuff,  boys  !  " 
he  exclaimed  somewhat  impatiently,  "you  can't  scare 
Little  Compton.  He's  got  grit,  and  it's  the  right 
kind  of  grit.  Why,  I'll  tell  you  what's  a  fact,  —  the 
sand  in  that  man's  gizzard  would  make  enough 
mortar  to  build  a  fort." 

"Well,  I'll  tell  you  what  we'll  do,"  said  Lieut. 
Ransome.  "We'll  sling  him  a  line  or  two,  and  if  it 
don't  stir  him  up,  all  right  ;  but  if  it  does,  we'll  have 
some  tall  fun." 

Whereupon,  Lieut.  Ransome  fished  around  in  the 
chest,  and  drew  forth  pen  and  ink  and  paper.  With 
some  aid  from  his  brother  officers  he  managed  to 
compose  the  following  :  — 

"  Little  Mr.  Compton.  Dear  Sir,  —  The  time  has  arrived 
when  every  man  should  show  his  colors.  Those  who  are  not 
for  us  are  against  us.     Your  best  friends,  when  asked  where 


Little  Compton.  51 

you  stand,  do  not  know  what  to  say.  If  you  are  for  the  North 
in  this  struggle,  your  place  is  at  the  North.  If  you  are  for  the 
South,  your  place  is  with  those  who  are  preparing  to  defend 
the  rights  and  liberties  of  the  South.  A  word  to  the  wise  is 
sufficient.     You  will  hear  from  me  again  in  due  time. 

"NEMESIS." 

This  was  duly  sealed  and  dropped  in  the  Hills- 
borough post-office,  and  Little  Compton  received  it 
the  same  afternoon.  He  smiled  as  he  broke  the 
seal,  but  ceased  to  smile  when  he  read  the  note.  It 
happened  to  fit  a  certain  vague  feeling  of  uneasiness 
that  possessed  him.  He  laid  it  down  on  his  desk, 
walked  up  and  down  behind  his  counter,  and  then 
returned  and  read  it  again.  The  sprawling  words 
seemed  to  possess  a  fascination  for  him.  He  read 
them  again  and  again,  and  turned  them  over  and 
over  in  his  mind.  It  was  characteristic  of  his  simple 
nature,  that  he  never  once  attributed  the  origin  of 
the  note  to  the  humor  of  the  young  men  with  whom 
he  was  so  familiar.  He  regarded  it  seriously.  Look- 
ing up  from  the  note,  he  could  see  in  the  corner  of 
his  store  the  brush  and  pot  that  had  been  used  as 
arguments  on  the  Vermont  abolitionist.  He  vividly 
recalled  the  time  when  that  unfortunate  person  was 
brought  up  before  the  self-constituted  tribunal  that 
assembled  in  his  store. 

Little  Compton  thought  he  had  gauged  accurately 
the  temper  of  the  people  about  him  ;  and  he  had,  but 
his  modesty  prevented  him  from  accurately  gauging, 


52  Little  Compton. 

or  even  thinking  about,  the  impression  he  had  made 
on  them.  The  note  troubled  him  a  good  deal  more 
than  he  would  at  first  confess  to  himself.  He  seated 
himself  on  a  low  box  behind  his  counter  to  think  it 
over,  resting  his  face  in  his  hands.  A  little  boy  who 
wanted  to  buy  a  thrip's  worth  of  candy  went  slowly 
out  again  after  trying  in  vain  to  attract  the  attention 
of  the  hitherto  prompt  and  friendly  store-keeper. 
Tommy  Tinktums,  the  cat,  seeing  that  his  master 
was  sitting  down,  came  forward  with  the  expectation 
of  being  told  to  perform  his  famous  "bouncing" 
trick,  a  feat  that  was  at  once  the  wonder  and  delight 
of  the  youngsters  around  Hillsborough.  But  Tommy 
Tinktums  was  not  commanded  to  bounce  ;  and  so 
he  contented  himself  with  washing  his  face,  pausing 
every  now  and  then  to  watch  his  master  with  half- 
closed  eyes. 

While  sitting  thus  reflecting,  it  suddenly  occurred 
to  Little  Compton  that  he  had  had  very  few  cus- 
tomers during  the  past  several  days  ;  and  it  seemed 
to  him,  as  he  continued  to  think  the  matter  over, 
that  the  people,  especially  the  young  men,  had  been 
less  cordial  lately  than  they  had  ever  been  before. 
It  never  occurred  to  him  that  the  threatened  war, 
and  the  excitement  of  the  period,  occupied  their 
entire  attention.  He  simply  remembered  that  the 
young  men  who  had  made  his  modest  little  store 
their  headquarters  met  there  no  more.  Little  Comp- 
ton  sat  behind  his   counter  a  long  time   thinking. 


Little  Compton.  53 

The  sun  went  down,  and  the  dusk  fell,  and  the  night 
came  on  and  found  him  there. 

After  a  while  he  lit  a  candle,  spread  the  commu- 
nication out  on  his  desk,  and  read  it  again.  To  his 
mind,  there  was  no  mistaking  its  meaning.  It  meant 
that  he  must  either  fight  against  the  Union,  or  array 
against  himself  all  the  bitter  and  aggressive  sus- 
picion of  the  period.  He  sighed  heavily,  closed  his 
store,  and  went  out  into  the  darkness.  He  made 
his  way  to  the  residence  of  Major  Jimmy  Bass, 
where  Miss  Lizzie  Fairleigh  boarded.  The  major 
himself  was  sitting  on  the  veranda  ;  and  he  welcomed 
Little  Compton  with  effusive  hospitality, — a  hospi- 
tality that  possessed  an  old-fashioned  flavor. 

"I'm  mighty  glad  you  come,  — yes,  sir,  I  am.  It 
looks  like  the  whole  world's  out  at  the  camps,  and 
it  makes  me  feel  sorter  lonesome.  Yes,  sir  ;  it  does 
that.  If  I  wasn't  so  plump  I'd  be  out  there  too. 
It's  a  mighty  good  place  to  be  about  this  time  of  the 
year.  I  tell  you  what,  sir,  them  boys  is  got  the  devil 
in  'em.  Yes,  sir ;  there  ain't  no  two  ways  about 
that.  When  they  turn  themselves  loose,  somebody 
or  something  will  git  hurt.  Now,  you  mark  what  I 
tell  you.  It's  a  tough  lot,  —  a  mighty  tough  lot. 
Lord !  wouldn't  I  hate  to  be  a  Yankee,  and  fall  in 
their  hands  !  I'd  be  glad  if  I  had  time  for  to  say  my 
prayers.     Yes,  sir  ;  I  would  that." 

Thus  spoke  the  cheerful  Major  Bass  ;  and  every 
word  he  said  seemed  to  rhyme  with  Little  Compton's 


54.  Little  Compton. 

own  thoughts,  and  to  confirm  the  fears  that  had 
been  aroused  by  the  note.  After  he  had  listened  to 
the  major  a  while,  Little  Compton  asked  for  Miss 
Fairleigh. 

"Oho!"  said  the  major.  Then  he  called  to  a 
negro  who  happened  to  be  passing  through  the  hall, 
"Jesse,  tell  Miss  Lizzie  that  Mr.  Compton  is  in  the 
parlor."  Then  he  turned  to  Compton.  "  I  tell  you 
what,  sir,  that  gal  looks  mighty  puny.  She's  from 
the  North,  and  I  reckon  she's  homesick.  And  then 
there's  all  this  talk  about  war.  She  knows  our 
boys'll  eat  the  Yankees  plum  up,  and  I  don't  blame 
her  for  being  sorter  down-hearted.  I  wish  you'd  try 
to  cheer  her  up.  She's  a  good  gal  if  there  ever  was 
one  on  the  face  of  the  earth." 

Little  Compton  went  into  the  parlor,  where  he 
was  presently  joined  by  Miss  Fairleigh.  They  talked 
a  long  time  together,  but  what  they  said  no  one  ever 
knew.  They  conversed  in  low  tones ;  and  once  or 
twice  the  hospitable  major,  sitting  on  the  veranda, 
detected  himself  trying  to  hear  what  they  said.  He 
could  see  them  from  where  he  sat,  and  he  observed 
that  both  appeared  to  be  profoundly  dejected.  Not 
once  did  they  laugh,  or,  so  far  as  the  major  could 
see,  even  smile.  Occasionally  Little  Compton  arose 
and  walked  the  length  of  the  parlor,  but  Miss  Fair- 
leigh sat  with  bowed  head.  It  may  have  been  a 
trick  of  the  lamp,  but  it  seemed  to  the  major  that 
they  were  both  very  pale. 


Little  Compton.  55 

Finally  Little  Compton  rose  to  go.  The  major 
observed  with  a  chuckle  that  he  held  Miss  Fair- 
leigh's  hand  a  little  longer  than  was  strictly  neces- 
sary under  the  circumstances.  He  held  it  so  long, 
indeed,  that  Miss  Fairleigh  half  averted  her  face, 
but  the  major  noted  that  she  was  still  pale.  "We 
shall  have  a  wedding  in  this  house  before  the  war 
opens,"  he  thought  to  himself;  and  his  mind  was 
dwelling  on  such  a  contingency  when  Little  Comp- 
ton came  out  on  the  veranda. 

"Don't  tear  yourself  away  in  the  heat  of  the  day," 
said  Major  Bass  jocularly. 

"I  must  go,"  replied  Compton.  "  Good-by ! " 
He  seized  the  major's  hand  and  wrung  it. 

"Good-night,"  said  the  major,  "and  God  bless 
you ! " 

The  next  day  was  Sunday.  But  on  Monday  it 
was  observed  that  Compton's  store  was  closed. 
Nothing  was  said  and  little  thought  of  it.  People's 
minds  were  busy  with  other  matters.  The  drums 
were  beating,  the  flags  flying,  and  the  citizen  sol- 
diery parading.  It  was  a  noisy  and  an  exciting  time, 
and  a  larger  store  than  Little  Compton's  might  have 
remained  closed  for  several  days  without  attracting 
attention.  But  one  day,  when  the  young  men  from 
the  camp  were  in  the  village,  it  occurred  to  them  to 
inquire  what  effect  the  anonymous  note  had  had  on 
Little  Compton ;  whereupon  they  went  in  a  body 
to  his  store  ;  but  the  door  was  closed,  and  they  found 


56  Little  Compton. 

it  had  been  closed  a  week  or  more.  They  also  dis- 
covered that  Compton  had  disappeared. 

This  had  a  very  peculiar  effect  upon  Capt.  Jack 
Walthall.  He  took  off  his  uniform,  put  on  his  citi- 
zen's clothes,  and  proceeded  to  investigate  Compton's 
disappearance.  He  sought  in  vain  for  a  clew.  He 
interested  others  to  such  an  extent  that  a  great 
many  people  in  Hillsborough  forgot  all  about  the 
military  situation.  But  there  was  no  trace  of  Little 
Compton.  His  store  was  entered  from  a  rear  win- 
dow, and  every  thing  found  to  be'  intact.  Nothing 
had  been  removed.  The  jars  of  striped  candy  that 
had  proved  so  attractive  to  the  youngsters  of  Hills- 
borough stood  in  long  rows  on  the  shelves,  flanked 
by  the  thousand  and  one  notions  that  make  up  the 
stock  of  a  country  grocery  store.  Little  Compton's 
disappearance  was  a  mysterious  one,  and  under  ordi- 
nary circumstances  would  have  created  intense  ex- 
citement in  the  community  ;  but  at  that  particular 
time  the  most  sensational  event  would  have  seemed 
tame  and  commonplace  alongside  the  preparations 
for  war. 

Owing  probably  to  a  lack  of  the  faculty  of  organi- 
zation at  Richmond, — a  lack  which,  if  we  are  to 
believe  the  various  historians  who  have  tried  to 
describe  and  account  for  some  of  the  results  of  that 
period,  was  the  cause  of  many  bitter  controversies, 
and  of  many  disastrous  failures  in  the  field,  —  a 
month  or  more  passed  away  before  the  Hillsborough 


Little  Compton.  57 

company  received  orders  to  go  to  the  front.  Fort 
Sumter  had  been  fired  on,  troops  from  all  parts  of 
the  South  had  gathered  in  Virginia,  and  the  war  was 
beginning  in  earnest.  Capt.  Jack  Walthall  of  the 
Hillsborough  Guards  chafed  at  the  delay  that  kept 
his  men  resting  on  their  arms,  so  to  speak  ;  but  he 
had  ample  opportunity,  meanwhile,  to  wonder  what 
had  become  of  Little  Compton.  In  his  leisure 
moments  he  often  found  himself  sitting  on  the  dry- 
goods  boxes  in  the  neighborhood  of  Little  Compton's 
store.  Sitting  thus  one  day,  he  was  approached  by 
his  body-servant.  Jake  had  his  hat  in  his  hand,  and 
showed  by  his  manner  that  he  had  something  to  say. 
He  shuffled  around,  looked  first  one  way  and  then 
another,  and  scratched  his  head. 

"  Marse  Jack,"  he  began. 

"  Well,  what  is  it  ? "  said  the  other,  somewhat 
sharply. 

"  Marse  Jack,  I  hope  ter  de  Lord  you  ain't  gwine 
ter  git  mad  wid  me ;  yit  I  mos'  knows  you  is,  kaze  I 
oughter  done  tole  you  a  long  time  ago." 

"  You  ought  to  have  told  me  what  ?  " 

"  'Bout  my  drivin'  yo'  hoss  en  buggy  over  ter 
Rockville  dat  time,  —  dat  time  what  I  ain't  never 
tole  you  'bout.  But  I  'uz  mos'  'blige'  ter  do  it.  I 
'low  ter  myse'f,  I  did,  dat  I  oughter  come  tell  you 
right  den,  but  I  'uz  skeer'd  you  mought  git  mad,  en 
den  you  wuz  out  dar  at  de  camps,  'long  wid  dem 
milliumterry  folks." 


58  Little  Compton. 

"  What  have  you  got  to  tell  ?  " 

"Well,  Marse  Jack,  des  'bout  takin'  yo'  hoss  en 
buggy.  Marse  Compton  'lowed  you  wouldn't  keer, 
en  w'en  he  say  dat,  I  des  went  en  hitch  up  de  hoss 
en  kyar'd  'im  over  ter  Rockville." 

"  What  .under  heaven  did  you  want  to  go  to 
Rockville  for  ? " 

"  Who  ?  me,  Marse  Jack  ?  'Twa'n't  me  wanter  go. 
Hit  'uz  Marse  Compton." 

"  Little  Compton  ?  "  exclaimed  Walthall. 

"  Yes,  sir,  dat  ve'y  same  man." 

"  What  did  you  carry  Little  Compton  to  Rockville 
for  ?  " 

"  Fo'  de  Lord,  Marse  Jack,  I  dunno  w'at  Marse 
Compton  wanter  go  fer.  I  des  know'd  I  'uz  doin' 
wrong,  but  he  tuck'n  'low'  dat  hit'd  be  all  right  wid 
you,  kaze  you  bin  knowin'  him  so  monst'us  well. 
En  den  he  up'n  ax  me  not  to  tell  you  twell  he  done 
plum  out'n  yearin'." 

"  Didn't  he  say  any  thing  ?  Didn't  he  tell  you 
where  he  was  going  ?  Didn't  he  send  any  word 
back?" 

This  seemed  to  remind  Jake  of  something.  He 
clapped  his  hand  to  his  head,  and  exclaimed,  — 

"Well,  de  Lord  he'p  my  soul!  Ef  I  ain't  de 
beatenest  nigger  on  de  top  side  er  de  yeth  !  Marse 
Compton  gun  me  a  letter,  en  I  tuck'n  shove  it  un'  de 
buggy  seat,  en  it's  right  dar  yit  ef  somebody  ain't 
tored  it  up." 


Little  Compton.  59 

By  certain  well-known  signs  Jake  knew  that  his 
Marse  Jack  was  very  mad,  and  he  was  hurrying  out. 
But  Walthall  called  him. 

"  Come  here,  sir  !  "  The  tone  made  Jake  tremble. 
"Do  you  stand  up  there,  sir,  and  tell  me  all  this,  and 
think  I  am  going  to  put  up  with  it  ? " 

"I'm  gwine  after  dat  note,  Marse  Jack,  des  ez 
hard  ez  ever  I  kin." 

Jake  managed  to  find  the  note  after  some  little 
search,  and  carried  it  to  Jack  Walthall.  It  was 
crumpled  and  soiled.  It  had  evidently  seen  rough 
service  under  the  buggy  seat.  Walthall  took  it  from 
the  negro,  turned  it  over  and  looked  at  it.  It  was 
sealed,  and  addressed  to  Miss  Lizzie  Fairleigh. 

Jack  Walthall  arrayed  himself  in  his  best,  and 
made  his  way  to  Major  Jimmy  Bass's,  where  he 
inquired  for  Miss  Fairleigh.  That  young  lady 
promptly  made  her  appearance.  She  was  pale  and 
seemed  to  be  troubled.  Walthall  explained  his 
errand,  and  handed  her  the  note.  He  thought  her 
hand  trembled,  but  he  may  have  been  mistaken,  as 
he  afterward  confessed.  She  read  it,  and  handed  it 
to  Capt.  Walthall  with  a  vague  little  smile  that 
would  have  told  him  volumes  if  he  had  been  able  to 
read  the  feminine  mind. 

Major  Jimmy  Bass  was  a  wiser  man  than  Walthall, 
and  he  remarked  long  afterward  that  he  knew  by  the 
way  the  poor  girl  looked  that  she  was  in  trouble,  and 
it  is  not  to  be  denied,  at  least,  it  is  not  to  be  denied 


60  Little  Compton. 

in  Hillsborough,  where  he  was  known  and  respected 
—  that  Major  Bass's  impressions  were  as  important 
as  the  average  man's  convictions.  This  is  what 
Capt.  Jack  Walthall  read  :  — 

"Dear  Miss  Fairleigh,  —  When  you  see  this  I  shall  be 
on  my  way  home.  My  eyes  have  recently  been  opened  to  the 
fact  that  there  is  to  be  a  war  for  and  against  the  Union.  I  have 
strong  friendships  here,  but  I  feel  that  I  owe  a  duty  to  the  old 
flag.  When  I  bade  you  good-by  last  night,  it  was  good-by  for- 
ever. I  had  hoped  —  I  had  desired — to  say  more  than  I  did; 
but  perhaps  it  is  better  so.  Perhaps  it  is  better  that  I  should 
carry  with  me  a  fond  dream  of  what  might  have  been,  than  to 
have  been  told  by  you  that  such  a  dream  could  never  come  true. 
I  had  intended  to  give  you  the  highest  evidence  of  my  respect 
and  esteem  that  man  can  give  to  woman,  but  I  have  been  over- 
ruled by  fate  or  circumstance.  I  shall  love  you  as  long  as  I 
live.  One  thing  more :  should  you  ever  find  yourself  in  need 
of  the  services  of  a  friend,  —  a  friend  in  whom  you  may  place 
the  most  implicit  confidence,  —  send  for  Mr.  Jack  Walthall. 
Say  to  him  that  Little  Compton  commended  you  to  his  care  and 
attention,  and  give  him  my  love." 

Walthall  drew  a  long  breath  and  threw  his  head 
back  as  he  finished  reading  this.  Whatever  emotion 
he  may  have  felt,  he  managed  to  conceal,  but  there 
was  a  little  color  in  his  usually  pale  face,  and  his 
dark  eyes  shone  with  a  new  light. 

"This  is  a  very  unfortunate  mistake,"  he  ex- 
claimed.    "  What  is  to  be  done  ?  " 

Miss  Fairleigh  smiled. 

"There  is  no  mistake,  Mr.  Walthall,"  she  replied. 


Little  Compton.  61 

"  Mr.  Compton  is  a  Northern  man,  and  he  has  gone 
to  join  the  Northern  army.     I  think  he  is  right." 

"Well,"  said  Walthall,  "he  will  do  what  he  thinks 
is  right,  but  I  wish  he  was  here  to-night." 

"  Oh,  so  do  I !  "  exclaimed  Miss  Fairleigh,  and 
then  she  blushed ;  seeing  which,  Mr.  Jack  Walthall 
drew  his  own  conclusions. 

"  If  I  could  get  through  the  lines,"  she  went  on, 
"I  would  go  home."  Whereupon  Walthall  offered 
her  all  the  assistance  in  his  power,  and  offered  to 
escort  her  to  the  Potomac.  But  before  arrangements 
for  the  journey  could  be  made,  there  came  the  news 
of  the  first  battle  of  Manassas,  and  the  conflict  was 
begun  in  earnest ;  so  earnest,  indeed,  that  it  changed 
the  course  of  a  great  many  lives,  and  gave  even  a 
new  direction  to  American  history. 

Miss  Fairleigh's  friends  in  Hillsborough  would  not 
permit  her  to  risk  the  journey  through  the  lines  ;  and 
Capt.  Walthall's  company  was  ordered  to  the  front, 
where  the  young  men  composing  it  entered  headlong 
into  the  hurly-burly  that  goes  by  the  name  of  war. 

There  was  one  little  episode  growing  out  of  Jack 
Walthall's  visit  to  Miss  Fairleigh  that  ought  to  be 
told.  When  that  young  gentleman  bade  her  good- 
evening,  and  passed  out  of  the  parlor,  Miss  Fairleigh 
placed  her  hands  to  her  face  and  fell  to  weeping,  as 
women  will. 

Major  Bass,  sitting  on  the  veranda,  had  been  an 
interested  spectator  of  the  conference  in  the  parlor, 


62  Little  Compton. 

but  it  was  in  the  nature  of  a  pantomine.  He  could 
hear  nothing  that  was  said,  but  he  could  see  that 
Miss  Fairleigh  and  Walthall  were  both  laboring 
under  some  strong  excitement.  When,  therefore, 
he  saw  Walthall  pass  hurriedly  out,  leaving  Miss 
Fairleigh  in  tears  in  the  parlor,  it  occurred  to  him 
that,  as  the  head  of  the  household  and  the  natural 
protector  of  the  women  under  his  roof,  he  was  bound 
to  take  some  action.  He  called  Jesse,  the  negro 
house-servant,  who  was  on  duty  in  the  dining-room. 

"Jess!  Jess!  Oh,  Jess  !  "  There  was  an  insinu- 
ating sweetness  in  his  voice,  as  it  echoed  through 
the  hall.  Jesse,  doubtless  recognizing  the  velvety 
quality  of  the  tone,  made  his  appearance  promptly. 
"Jess,"  said  the  major  softly,  "I  wish  you'd  please 
fetch  me  my  shot-gun.  Make  'aste,  Jess,  and  don't 
make  no  furse." 

Jesse  went  after  the  shot-gun,  and  the  major 
waddled  into  the  parlor.  He  cleared  his  throat  at 
the  door,  and  Miss  Fairleigh  looked  up. 

"  Miss  Lizzie,  did  Jack  Walthall  insult  you  here  in 
my  house  ? " 

"Insult  me,  sir!  Why,  he's  the  noblest  gentleman 
alive." 

The  major  drew  a  deep  breath  of  relief,  and 
smiled. 

"  Well,  I'm  mighty  glad  to  hear  you  say  so  !  "  he 
exclaimed.  "  I  couldn't  tell,  to  save  my  life,  what 
put  it  into  my  mind.     Why,  I  might  'a'  know'd  that 


Little  Compton.  63 

Jack  Walthall  ain't  that  kind  of  a  chap.  Lord !  I 
reckon  I  must  be  getting  old  and  weak-minded. 
Don't  cry  no  more,  honey.  Go  right  along  and  go 
to  bed."  As  he  turned  to  go  out  of  the  parlor,  he 
was  confronted  by  Jesse  with  the  shot-gun.  ".Oh, 
go  put  her  up,  Jess,"  he  said  apologetically;  "go  put 
her  up,  boy.  I  wanted  to  blaze  away  at  a  dog  out 
there  trying  to  scratch  under  the  palings  ;  but  the 
dog's  done  gone.     Go  put  her  up,  Jess." 

When  Jess  carried  the  gun  back,  he  remarked 
casually  to  his  mistress,  — 

"  Miss  Sa'h,  you  better  keep  yo'  eye  on  Marse 
Maje.  He  talkin'  mighty  funny,  en  he  doin'  mighty 
quare." 

Thereafter,  for  many  a  long  day,  the  genial  major 
sat  in  his  cool  veranda,  and  thought  of  Jack  Walthall 
and  the  boys  in  Virginia.  Sometimes  between  dozes 
he  would  make  his  way  to  Perdue's  Corner,  and  dis- 
cuss the  various  campaigns.  How  many  desperate 
campaigns  were  fought  on  that  Corner !  All  the 
older  citizens,  who  found  it  convenient  or  necessary 
to  stay  at  home,  had  in  them  the  instinct  and  emo- 
tions of  great  commanders.  They  knew  how  victory 
could  be  wrung  from  defeat,  and  how  success  could 
be  made  more  overwhelming.  At  Perdue's  Corner, 
Washington  City  was  taken  not  less  than  a  dozen 
times  a  week,  and  occasionally  both  New  York  and 
Boston  were  captured  and  sacked.  Of  all  the  gen- 
erals who  fought  their  battles  at  the  Corner,  Major 


64  Little  Compton. 

Jimmy  Bass  was  the  most  energetic,  the  most  daring, 
and  the  most  skilful.  As  a  strategist  he  had  no 
superior.  He  had  a  way  of  illustrating  the  feasibil- 
ity of  his  plans  by  drawing  them  in  the  sand  with 
his  cane.  Fat  as  he  was,  the  major  had  a  way  of 
"  surroundering  "  the  enemy  so  that  no  avenue  was 
left  for  his  escape.  At  Perdue's  Corner  he  captured 
Scott,  and  McClellan,  and  Joe  Hooker,  and  John 
Pope,  and  held  their  entire  forces  as  prisoners  of 
war. 

In  spite  of  all  this,  however,  the  war  went  on. 
Sometimes  word  would  come  that  one  of  the  Hills- 
borough boys  had  been  shot  to  death.  Now  and 
then  one  would  come  home  with  an  arm  or  a  leg 
missing ;  so  that,  before  many  months  had  passed, 
even  the  generals  conducting  their  campaigns  at 
Perdue's  Corner  managed  to  discover  that  war  was 
a  very  serious  business. 

It  happened  that  one  day  in  July,  Capt.  Jack 
Walthall  and  his  men,  together  with  quite  an  impos- 
ing array  of  comrades,  were  called  upon  to  breast 
the  sultry  thunder  of  Gettysburg.  They  bore  them- 
selves like  men  ;  they  went  forward  with  a  shout 
and  a  rush,  facing  the  deadly  slaughter  of  the  guns  ; 
they  ran  up  the  hill  and  to  the  rock  wall.  With 
others,  Capt.  Walthall  leaped  over  the  wall.  ■  They 
were  met  by  a  murderous  fire  that  mowed  down  the 
men  like  grass.  The  line  in  the  rear  wavered,  fell 
back,  and  went  forward  again.     Capt.  Walthall  heard 


Little  Compton.  65 

his  name  called  in  his  front,  and  then  some  one 
cried,  "  Don't  shoot  !  "  and  Little  Compton,  his  face 
blackened  with  powder,  and  his  eyes  glistening  with 
excitement,  rushed  into  Walthall's  arms.  The  order 
not  to  shoot: — if  it  was  an  order — came  too  late. 
There  was  another  volley.  As  the  Confederates 
rushed  forward,  the  Federal  line  retreated  a  little 
way,  and  Walthall  found  himself  surrounded  by  the 
small  remnant  of  his  men.  The  Confederates  made 
one  more  effort  to  advance,  but  it  was  useless. 
The  line  was  borne  back,  and  finally  retreated ;  but 
when  it  went  down  the  slope,  Walthall  and  Lieut. 
Ransome  had  Little  Compton  between  them.  He 
was  a  prisoner.  Just  how  it  all  happened,  no  one  of 
the  three  could  describe,  but  Little  Compton  was 
carried  into  the  Confederate  lines.  He  was  wounded 
in  the  shoulder  and  in  the  arm,  and  the  ball  that 
shattered  his  arm  shattered  Walthall's  arm. 

They  were  carried  to  the  field  hospital,  where 
Walthall  insisted  that  Little  Compton's  wounds 
should  be  looked  after  first.  The  result  was,  that 
Walthall  lost  his  left  arm  and  Compton  his  right ; 
and  then,  when  by  some  special  interposition  of 
Providence  they  escaped  gangrene  and  other  results 
of  imperfect  surgery  and  bad  nursing,  they  went  to 
Richmond,  where  Walthall's  money  and  influence 
secured  them  comfortable  quarters. 

Hillsborough  had  heard  of  all  this  in  a  vague  way, 
—  indeed,  a  rumor  of   it  had  been  printed  in   the 


66  Little  Compton. 

Rockville  "Vade  Mecum," — but  the  generals  and 
commanders  in  consultation  at  Perdue's  Corner  were 
astonished  one  day  when  the  stage-coach  set  down 
at  the  door  of  the  tavern  a  tall,  one-armed  gentle- 
man in  gray,  and  a  short,  one-armed  gentleman  in 
blue. 

"By  the  livin'  Lord!"  exclaimed  Major  Jimmy 
Bass,  "  if  that  ain't  Jack  Walthall !  And  you  may 
put  out  my  two  eyes  if  that  ain't  Little  Compton ! 
Why,  shucks,  boys  ! "  he  exclaimed,  as  he  waddled 
across  the  street,  "  I'd  'a'  know'd  you  anywheres. 
I'm  a  little  short-sighted,  and  I'm  mighty  nigh  took 
off  wi'  the  dropsy,  but  I'd  'a'  know'd  you  any- 
wheres." 

There  were  handshakings  and  congratulations  from 
everybody  in  the  town.  The  clerks  and  the  mer- 
chants deserted  their  stores  to  greet  the  new-comers, 
and  there  seemed  to  be  a  general  jubilee.  For 
weeks  Capt.  Jack  Walthall  was  compelled  to  tell  his 
Gettysburg  story  over  and  over  again,  frequently  to 
the  same  hearers  ;  and,  curiously  enough,  there  was 
never  a  murmur  of  dissent  when  he  told  how  Little 
Compton  had  insisted  on  wearing  his  Federal  uni- 
form. 

"Great  Jiminy  Craminy ! "  Major  Jimmy  Bass 
would  exclaim  ;  "  don't  we  all  know  Little  Compton 
like  a  book  ?  And  ain't  he  got  a  right  to  wear  his 
own  duds  ?  " 

Rockville,  like  every  other  railroad  town    in    the 


Little  Compton.  67 

South  at  that  period,  had  become  the  site  of  a  Con- 
federate hospital ;  and  sometimes  the  hangers-on  and 
convalescents  paid  brief  visits  of  inspection  to  the 
neighboring  villages.  On  one  occasion  a  little  squad 
of  them  made  their  appearance  on  the  streets  of 
Hillsborough,  and  made  a  good-natured  attempt  to 
fraternize  with  the  honest  citizens  who  gathered 
daily  at  Perdue's  Corner.  While  they  were  thus 
engaged,  Little  Compton,  arrayed  in  his  blue  uni- 
form, passed' down  the  street.  The  visitors  made 
some  inquiries,  and  Major  Bass  gave  them  a  very 
sympathetic  history  of  Little  Compton.  Evidently 
they  failed  to  appreciate  the  situation  ;  for  one  of 
them,  a  tall  Mississippian,  stretched  himself  and 
remarked  to  his  companions,  — 

"Boys,  when  we  go,  we'll  just  about  lift  that  feller 
and  take  him  along.  He  belongs  in  Andersonville, 
that's  where  he  belongs." 

Major  Bass  looked  at  the  tall  Mississippian  and 
smiled. 

"I  reckon  you  must  'a'  been  mighty  sick  over 
yander,"  said  the  major,  indicating  Rockville. 

"Well,  yes,"  said  the  Mississippian;  "I've  had 
a  pretty  tough  time." 

"And  you  ain't  strong  yet,"  the  major  went  on. 

"Well,  I'm  able  to  get  about  right  lively,"  said  the 
other. 

"  Strong  enough  to  go  to  war  ?  " 

"Oh,  well,  not  —  not  just  yet." 


68  Little  Compton. 

"  Well,  then,"  said  the  major  in  his  bluntest  tone, 
"you  better  be  mighty  keerful  of  yourself  in  this 
town.  If  you  ain't  strong  enough  to  go  to  war,  you 
better  let  Little  Compton  alone." 

The  tall  Mississippian  and  his  friends  took  the 
hint,  and  Little  Compton  continued  to  wear  his  blue 
uniform  unmolested.  About  this  time  Atlanta  fell ; 
and  there  were  vague  rumors  in  the  air,  chiefly  among 
the  negroes,  that  Sherman's  army  would  march  down 
and  capture  Hillsborough,  which,  by  the  assembly 
of  generals  at  Perdue's  Corner,  was  regarded  as  a 
strategic  point.  These  vague  rumors  proved  to  be 
correct ;  and  by  the  time  the  first  frosts  fell,  Perdue's 
Corner  had  reason  to  believe  that  Gen.  Sherman 
was  marching  down  on  Hillsborough.  Dire  rumors 
of  fire,  rapine,  and  pillage  preceded  the  approach  of 
the  Federal  army,  and  it  may  well  be  supposed  that 
these  rumors  spread  consternation  in  the  air.  Major 
Bass  professed  to  believe  that  Gen.  Sherman  would 
be  "  surroundered  "  and  captured  before  his  troops 
reached  Middle  Georgia ;  but  the  three  columns, 
miles  apart,  continued  their  march  unopposed. 

It  was  observed  that  during  this  period  of  doubt; 
anxiety,  and  terror,  Little  Compton  was  on  the  alert. 
He  appeared  to  be  nervous  and  restless.  His  con- 
duct was  so  peculiar  that  some  of  the  more  suspicious 
citizens  of  the  region  predicted  that  he  had  been 
playing  the  part  of  a  spy,  and  that  he  was  merely 
waiting  for  the  advent  of  Sherman's  army  in  order 


Little  Compton.  69 

to  point  out  where  his  acquaintances  had  concealed 
their  treasures. 

One  fine  morning  a  company  of  Federal  troopers 
rode  into  Hillsborough.  They  were  met  by  Little 
Compton,  who  had  borrowed  one  of  Jack  Walthall's 
horses  for  just  such  an  occasion.  The  cavalcade 
paused  in  the  public  square,  and,  after  a  somewhat 
prolonged  consultation  with  Little  Compton,  rode  on 
in  the  direction  of  Rockville.  During  the  day  small 
parties  of  foragers  made  their  appearance.  Little 
Compton  had  some  trouble  with  these  ;  but,  by  hurry- 
ing hither  and  thither,  he  managed  to  prevent  any 
depredations.  He  even  succeeded  in  convincing  the 
majority  of  them  that  they  owed  some  sort  of  respect 
to  that  small  town.  There  was  one  obstinate  fellow, 
however,  who  seemed  determined  to  prosecute  his 
search  for  valuables.  He  was  a  German  who  evi- 
dently did  not  understand  English. 

In  the  confusion  Little  Compton  lost  sight  of  the 
German,  though  he  had  determined  to  keep  an  eye 
on  him.  It  was  not  long  before  he  heard  of  him 
again  ;  for  one  of  the  Walthall  negroes  came  running 
across  the  public  square,  showing  by  voice  and  ges- 
ture that  he  was  very  much  alarmed. 

"Marse  Compton!  Marse  Compton!"  he  cried, 
"you  better  run  up  ter  Marse  Jack's,  kaze  one  er  dem 
mens  is  gwine  in  dar  whar  ole  Miss  is,  en  ef  he  do  dat 
he  gwine  ter  git  hurted  !  " 

Little  Compton  hurried  to  the  Walthall  place,  and 


yo  Little  Comptoii. 

he  was  just  in  time  to  see  Jack  rushing  the  German 
down  the  wide  flight  of  steps  that  led  to  the  veranda. 
What  might  have  happened,  no  one  can  say ;  what 
did  happen  may  be  briefly  told.  The  German,  his 
face  inflamed  with  passion,  had  seized  his  gun,  which 
had  been  left  outside,  and  was  aiming  at  Jack  Wal- 
thall, who  stood  on  the  steps,  cool  and  erect.  An 
exclamation  of  mingled  horror  and  indignation  from 
Little  Compton  attracted  the  German's  attention,  and 
caused  him  to  turn  his  head.  This  delay  probably 
saved  Jack  Walthall's  life ;  for  the  German,  thinking 
that  a  comrade  was  coming  to  his  aid,  levelled  his 
gun  again  and  fired.  But  Little  Compton  had  seized 
the  weapon  near  the  muzzle  and  wrested  it  around. 
The  bullet,  instead  of  reaching  its  target,  tore  its  way 
through  Compton's  empty  sleeve.  In  another  instant 
the  German  was  covered  by  Compton's  revolver. 
The  hand  that  held  it  was  steady,  and  the  eyes  that 
glanced  along  its  shining  barrel  fairly  blazed.  The 
German  dropped  his  gun.  All  trace  of  passion  dis- 
appeared from  his  face ;  and  presently  seeing  that 
the  crisis  had  passed,  so  far  as  he  was  concerned,  he 
wheeled  in  his  tracks,  gravely  saluted  Little  Compton, 
and  made  off  at  a  double-quick. 

"  You  musn't  think  hard  of  the  boys,  Jack,  on 
account  of  that  chap.  They  understand  the  whole 
business,  and  they  are  going  to  take  care  of  this 
town." 

And  they  did.     The  army  came    marching  along 


Little  Compton.  71 

presently,  and  the  stragglers  found  Hillsborough  pa- 
trolled by  a  detachment  of  cavalry.  Walthall  and 
Little  Compton  stood  on  the  wide  steps,  and  reviewed 
this  imposing  array  as  it  passed  before  them.  The 
tall  Confederate,  in  his  uniform  of  gray,  rested  his 
one  hand  affectionately  on  the  shoulder  of  the  stout 
little  man  in  blue,  and  on  the  bosom  of  each  was 
pinned  an  empty  sleeve.  Unconsciously,  they  made 
an  impressive  picture.  The  Commander,  grim,  gray, 
and  resolute,  observed  it  with  sparkling  eyes.  The 
spectacle  was  so  unusual  —  so  utterly  opposed  to  the 
logic  of  events  —  that  he  stopped  with  his  staff  long 
enough  to  hear  Little  Compton  tell  his  story.  He 
was  a  grizzled,  aggressive  man,  this  Commander,  but 
his  face  lighted  up  wonderfully  at  the  recital. 

"Well,  you  know  this  sort  of  thing  doesn't  end 
the  war,  boys,"  he  said,  as  he  shook  hands  with 
Walthall  and  Little  Compton  ;  "  but  I  shall  sleep 
better  to-night." 

Perhaps  he  did.  Perhaps  he  dreamed  that  what 
he  had  seen  and  heard  was  prophetic  of  the  days  to 
come,  when  peace  and  fraternity  should  seize  upon 
the  land,  and  bring  unity,  happiness,  and  prosperity 
to  the  people. 


AUNT    FOUNTAIN'S    PRISONER. 

IT  is  curious  how  the  smallest  incident,  the  most 
unimportant  circumstance,  will  recall  old  friends 
and  old  associations.  An  old  gentleman,  who  is 
noted  far  and  near  for  his  prodigious  memory  of 
dates  and  events,  once  told  me  that  his  memory, 
so  astonishing  to  his  friends  and  acquaintances,  con- 
sisted not  so  much  in  remembering  names  and  dates 
and  facts,  as  in  associating  each  of  these  with  some 
special  group  of  facts  and  events  ;  so  that  he  always 
had  at  command  a  series  of  associations  to  which  he 
could  refer  instantly  and  confidently.  This  is  an 
explanation  of  the  system  of  employing  facts,  but  not 
of  the  method  by  which  they  are  accumulated  and 
stored  away. 

I  was  reminded  of  this  some  years  ago  by  a  para- 
graph in  one  of  the  county  newspapers  that  some- 
times come  under  my  observation.  It  was  a  very 
commonplace  paragraph  ;  indeed,  it  was  in  the  nature 
of  an  advertisement, — an  announcement  of  the  fact 
that  orders  for  "gilt-edged  butter"  from  the  Jersey 
farm  on  the  Tomlinson  Place  should  be  left  at  the 
drug-store  in  Rockville,  where  the  first  that  came 
would  be  the  first  served.  This  business-like  notice 
72 


Aunt  Fountain's  Prisoner.  73 

was  signed  by  Ferris  Trunion.  The  name  was  not 
only  peculiar,  but  new  to  me ;  but  this  was  of  no 
importance  at  all.  The  fact  that  struck  me  was  the 
bald  and  bold  announcement  that  the  Tomlinson 
Place  was  the  site  and  centre  of  trading  and  other 
commercial  transactions  in  butter.  I  can  only  im- 
agine what  effect  this  announcement  would  have  had 
on  my  grandmother,  who  died  years  ago,  and  on  some 
other  old  people  I  used  to  know.  Certainly  they 
would  have  been  horrified  ;  and  no  wonder,  for  when 
they  were  in  their  prime  the  Tomlinson  Place  was 
the  seat  of  all  that  was  high,  and  mighty,  and  grand, 
in  the  social  world  in  the  neighborhood  of  Rockville. 
I  remember  that  everybody  stood  in  awe  of  the  Tom- 
linsons.  Just  why  this  was  so,  I  never  could  make 
out.  They  were  very  rich  ;  the  Place  embraced  sev- 
eral thousand  acres  ;  but  if  the  impressions  made  on 
me  when  a  child  are  worth  any  thing,  they  were  ex- 
tremely simple  in  their  ways.  Though,  no  doubt, 
they  could  be  formal  and  conventional  enough  when 
occasion  required. 

I  have  no  distinct  recollection  of  Judge  Addison 
Tomlinson,  except  that  he  was  a  very  tall  old  gentle- 
man, much  older  than  his  wife,  who  went  about  the 
streets  of  Rockville  carrying  a  tremendous  gold- 
headed  cane  carved  in  a  curious  manner.  In  those 
days  I  knew  more  of  Mrs.  Tomlinson  than  I  did  of 
the  judge,  mainly  because  I  heard  a  great  deal  more 
about  her.     Some    of   the   women  called   her   Mrs. 


74  Aunt  Fountain's  Prisoner. 

Judge  Tomlinson  ;  but  my  grandmother  never  called 
her  any  thing  else  but  Harriet  Bledsoe,  which  was 
her  maiden  name.  It  was  a  name,  too,  that  seemed 
to  suit  her,  so  that  when  you  once  heard  her  called 
Harriet  Bledsoe,  you  never  forgot  it  afterward.  I  do 
not  know  now,  any  more  than  I  did  when  a  child, 
why  this  particular  name  should  fit  her  so  exactly ; 
but,  as  I  have  often  been  told,  a  lack  of  knowledge 
does  not  alter  facts. 

I  think  my  grandmother  used  to  go  to  church  to 
see  what  kind  of  clothes  Harriet  Bledsoe  wore ;  for 
I  have  often  heard  her  say,  after  the  sermon  was 
over,  that  Harriet's  bonnet,  or  Harriet's  dress, 
was  perfectly  charming.  Certainly  Mrs.  Tomlinson 
was  always  dressed  in  the  height  of  fashion,  though 
it  was  a  very  simple  fashion  when  compared  with  the 
flounces  and  furbelows  of  her  neighbors.  I  remem- 
ber this  distinctly,  that  she  seemed  to  be  perfectly 
cool  the  hottest  Sunday  in  summer,  and  comfortably 
warm  the  coldest  Sunday  in  winter;  and  I  am  con- 
vinced that  this  impression,  made  on  the  mind  of 
a  child,  must  bear  some  definite  relation  to  Mrs. 
Tomlinson's  good  taste. 

Certainly  my  grandmother  was  never  tired  of  tell- 
ing me  that  Harriet  Bledsoe  was  blessed  with  excep- 
tionally good  taste  and  fine  manners  ;  and  I  remember 
that  she  told  me  often  how  she  wished  I  was  a  girl, 
so  that  I  might  one  day  be  in  a  position  to  take  ad- 
vantage of  the  opportunities  I  had  had  of  profiting  by 


Aunt  Fountain's  Prisoner'.  75 

Harriet  Bledsoe's  example.  I  think  there  was  some 
sort  of  attachment  between  my  grandmother  and 
Mrs.  Tomlinson,  formed  when  they  were  at  school 
together,  though  my  grandmother  was  much  the 
older  of  the  two.  But  there  was  no  intimacy.  The 
gulf  that  money  sometimes  makes  between  those 
who  have  it  and  those  who  lack  it  lay  between  them. 
Though  I  think  my  grandmother  was  more  sensitive 
about  crossing  this  gulf  than  Mrs.  Tomlinson. 

I  was  never  in  the  Tomlinson  house  but  once 
when  a  child.  Whether  it  was  because  it  was  two 
or  three  miles  away  from  Rockville,  or  whether  it 
was  because  I  stood  in  awe  of  my  grandmother's 
Harriet  Bledsoe,  I  do  not  know.  But  I  have  a  very 
vivid  recollection  of  the  only  time  I  went  there  as 
a  boy.  One  of  my  playmates,  a  rough-and-tumble 
little  fellow,  was  sent  by  his  mother,  a  poor  sick 
woman,  to  ask  Mrs.  Tomlinson  for  some  preserves. 
I  think  this  woman  and  her  little  boy  were  in  some 
way  related  to  the  Tomlinsons.  The  richest  and 
most  powerful  people,  I  have  heard  it  said,  are  not 
so  rich  and  powerful  but  they  are  pestered  by  poor 
kin,  and  the  Tomlinsons  were  no  exception  to  the 
rule. 

I  went  with  this  little  boy  I  spoke  of,  and  I  was 
afraid  afterward  that  I  was  in  some  way  responsible 
for  his  boldness.  He  walked  right  into  the  presence 
of  Mrs.  Tomlinson,  and,  without  waiting  to  return 
the  lady's  salutation,  he  said  in  a  loud  voice,  — 


y6  Aunt  Fountain's  Prisoner. 

"Aunt  Harriet,  ma  says  send  her  some  of  your 
nicest  preserves." 

"Aunt  Harriet,  indeed  !  "  she  exclaimed,  and  then 
she  gave  him  a  look  that  was  cold  enough  to  freeze 
him,  and  hard  enough  to  send  him  through  the 
floor. 

I  think  she  relented  a  little,  for  she  went  to  one 
of  the  windows,  bigger  than  any  door  you  see  nowa- 
days, and  looked  out  over  the  blooming  orchard ; 
and  then  after  a  while  she  came  back  to  us,  and  was 
very  gracious.  She  patted  me  on  the  head  ;  and  I 
must  have  shrunk  from  her  touch,  for  she  laughed 
and  said  she  never  bit  nice  little  boys.  Then  she 
asked  me  my  name ;  and  when  I  told  her,  she  said 
my  grandmother  was  the  dearest  woman  in  the 
world.  Moreover,  she  told  my  companion  that  it 
would  spoil  preserves  to  carry  them  about  in  a  tin 
bucket ;  and  then  she  fetched  a  big  basket,  and  had 
it  filled  with  preserves,  and  jelly,  and  cake.  There 
were  some  ginger-preserves  among  the  rest,  and  I 
remember  that  I  appreciated  them  very  highly ;  the 
more  so,  since  my  companion  had  a  theory  of  his 
own  that  ginger-preserves  and  fruit-cake  were  not 
good  for  sick  people. 

I  remember,  too,  that  Mrs.  Tomlinscn  had  a  little 
daughter  about  my  own  age.  She  had  long  yellow 
hair  and  very  black  eyes.  She  rode  around  in  the 
Tomlinson  carriage  a  great  deal,  and  everybody  said 
she  was  remarkably  pretty,  with  a  style  and  a  spirit 


Aunt  Fountain's  Prisojier.  jy 

all  her  own.  The  negroes  used  to  say  that  she  was 
as  affectionate  as  she  was  wilful,  which  was  saying 
a  good  deal.  It  was  characteristic  of  Harriet  Bled- 
soe, my  grandmother  said,  that  her  little  girl  should 
be  named  Lady. 

I  heard  a  great  many  of  the  facts  I  have  stated 
from  old  Aunt  Fountain,  one  of  the  Tomlinson 
negroes,  who,  for  some  reason  or  other,  was  per- 
mitted to  sell  ginger-cakes  and  persimmon-beer  under 
the  wide-spreading  China-trees  in  Rockville  on  pub- 
lic days  and  during  court-week.  There  was  a  theory 
among  certain  envious  people  in  Rockville,  —  there 
are  envious  people  everywhere,  —  that  the  Tomlin- 
sons,  notwithstanding  the  extent  of  their  landed 
estate  and  the  number  of  their  negroes,  were  some- 
times short  of  ready  cash  ;  and  it  was  hinted  that 
they  pocketed  the  proceeds  of  Aunt  Fountain's  per- 
simmon-beer and  ginger-cakes.  Undoubtedly  such 
stories  as  these  were  the  outcome  of  pure  envy. 
When  my  grandmother  heard  such  gossip  as  this, 
she  sighed,  and  said  that  people  who  would  talk 
about  Harriet  Bledsoe  in  that  way  would  talk  about 
anybody  under  the  sun.  My  own  opinion  is,  that 
Aunt  Fountain  got  the  money  and  kept  it ;  other- 
wise she  would  not  have  been  so  fond  of  her  master 
and  mistress,  nor  so  proud  of  the  family  and  its 
position.  I  spent  many  an  hour  near  Aunt  Foun- 
tain's cake  and  beer  stand,  for  I  liked  to  hear  her 
talk.     Besides,  she  had  a  very  funny  name,  and   I 


?8  Aunt  Fountain  s  Prisoner. 

thought  there  was  always  a  probability  that  she 
would  explain  how  she  got  it.     But  she  never  did. 

I  had  forgotten  all  about  the  Tomlinsons  until  the 
advertisement  I  have  mentioned  was  accidentally 
brought  to  my  notice,  whereupon  memory  suddenly 
became  wonderfully  active.  I  am  keenly  alive  to 
the  happier  results  of  the  war,  and  I  hope  I  appre- 
ciate at  their  full  value  the  emancipation  of  both 
whites  and  blacks  from  the  deadly  effects  of  negro 
slavery,  and  the  wonderful  development  of  our  mate- 
rial resources  that  the  war  has  rendered  possible ; 
but  I  must  confess  it  was  with  a  feeling  of  regret  that 
I  learned  that  the  Tomlinson  Place  had  been  turned 
into  a  dairy-farm.  Moreover,  the  name  of  Ferris 
Trunion  had  a  foreign  and  an  unfamiliar  sound. 
His  bluntly  worded  advertisement  appeared  to  come 
from  the  mind  of  a  man  who  would  not  hesitate  to 
sweep  away  both  romance  and  tradition  if  they  hap- 
pened to  stand  in  the  way  of  a  profitable  bargain. 

I  was  therefore  much  gratified,  some  time  after 
reading  Trunion's  advertisement,  to  receive  a  note 
from  a  friend  who  deals  in  real  estate,  telling  me 
that  some  land  near  the  Tomlinson  Place  had  been 
placed  in  his  hands  for  sale,  and  asking  me  to  go  to 
Rockville  to  see  if  the  land  and  the  situation  were 
all  they  were  described  to  be.  I  lost  no  time  in 
undertaking  this  part  of  the  business,  for  I  was 
anxious  to  see  how  the  old  place  looked  in  the  hands 
of  strangers,  and  unsympathetic  strangers  at  that. 


Aunt  Fountain's  Prisoner.  79 

It  is  not -far  from  Atlanta  to  Rockville,  —  a  day 
and  a  night,  —  and  the. journey  is  not  fatiguing;  so 
that  a  few  hours  after  receiving  my  friend's  request 
I  was  sitting  in  the  veranda  of  the  Rockville  Hotel, 
observing,  with  some  degree  of  wonder,  the  vast 
changes  that  had  taken  place  —  the  most  of  them  for 
the  better.  There  were  new  faces  and  new  enter- 
prises all  around  me,  and  there  was  a  bustle  about 
the  town  that  must  have  caused  queer  sensations 
in  the  minds  of  the  few  old  citizens  who  still  gathered 
at  the  post-office  for  the  purpose  of  carrying  on 
ancient  political  controversies  with  each  other. 

Among  the  few  familiar  figures  that  attracted  my 
attention  was  that  of  Aunt  Fountain.  The  old 
China-tree  in  the  shade  of  which  she  used  to  sit  had 
been  blasted  by  lightning  or  fire ;  but  she  still  had 
her  stand  there,  and  she  was  keeping  the  flies  and 
dust  away  with  the  same  old  turkey-tail  fan.  I 
could  see  no  change.  If  her  hair  was  grayer,  it  was 
covered  and  concealed  from  view  by  the  snow-white 
handkerchief  tied  around  her  head.  From  my  place 
I  could  hear  her  humming  a  tune,  —  the  tune  I  had 
heard  her  sing  in  precisely  the  same  way  years  ago. 
I  heard  her  scolding  a  little  boy.  The  gesture,  the 
voice,  the  words,  were  the  same  she  had  employed 
in  trying  to  convince  me  that  my  room  was  much 
better  than  my  company,  especially  in  the  neighbor- 
hood of  her  cake-stand.  To  see  and  hear  her  thus 
gave   me   a    peculiar   feeling    of    homesickness.      I 


80  Aimt  Fountain's  Prisoner. 

approached  and  saluted  her.  She  bowed  with  old- 
fashioned  politeness,  but  without  looking  up. 

"De  biggest  uns,  dee  er  ten  cent,"  she  said,  point- 
ing to  her  cakes  ;  "  en  de  littlest,  dee  er  fi'  cent.  I 
make  um  all  myse'f,  suh.  En  de  beer  in  dat  jug  — 
dat  beer  got  body,  suh." 

"I  have  eaten  many  a  one  of  your  cakes,  Aunt 
Fountain,"  said  I,  "and  drank  many  a  glass  of  your 
beer;  but  you  have  forgotten  me." 

"  My  eye  weak,  suh,  but  dee  ain'  weak  nuff  fer 
dat."  She  shaded  her  eyes  with  her  fan,  and  looked 
at  me.  Then  she  rose  briskly  from  her  chair.  "  De 
Lord  he'p  my  soul !  "  she  exclaimed  enthusiastically. 
"  W'y,  I  know  you  w'en  you  little  boy.  Wat  make 
I  ain'  know  you  w'en  you  big  man  ?  My  eye  weak, 
suh,  but  dee  ain!  weak  nuff  fer  dat.  Well,  suh,  you 
mus'  eat  some  my  ginger-cake.  De  Lord  know  you 
has  make  way  wid  um  w'en  you  wuz  little  boy." 

The  invitation  was  accepted,  but  somehow  the 
ginger-cakes  had  lost  their  old-time  relish ;  in  me 
the  taste  and  spirit  of  youth  were  lacking. 

We  talked  of  old  times  and  old  friends,  and  I  told 
Aunt  Fountain  that  I  had  come  to  Rockville  for 
the  purpose  of  visiting  in  the  neighborhood  of  the 
Tomlinson  Place. 

"Den  I  gwine  wid  you,  suh,"  she  cried,  shaking 
her  head  vigorously.  "  I  gwine  wid  you."  And  go 
she  did. 

"  I  been  layin'  off  ter  go  see  my  young  mistiss  dis 


Aunt  Fountain's  Prisoner.  81 

long  time,"  said  Aunt  Fountain,  the  next  clay,  after 
we  had  started.  "  I  glad  I  gwine  deer  in  style.  De 
niggers  won'  know  me  skacely,  ridin'  in  de  buggy 
dis  away." 

"  Your  young  mistress  ?  "  I  inquired. 

"  Yes,  suh.  You  know  Miss  Lady  w'en  she  little 
gal.     She  grown  oman  now." 

"  Well,  who  is  this  Trunion  I  have  heard  of  ? " 

"  He  monst'ous  nice  w'ite  man,  suh.  He  married 
my  young  mistiss.     He  monst'ous  nice  w'ite  man." 

"  But  who  is  he  ?     Where  did  he  come  from  ?  " 

Aunt  Fountain  chuckled  convulsively  as  I  asked 
these  questions. 

"  We -all  des  pick  'im  up,  suh.  Yes,  suh ;  we-all 
des  pick  'im  up.  Ain'  you  year  talk  'bout  dat,  suh  ? 
I  dunner  whar  you  bin  at  ef  you  ain'  never  is  year 
talk  'bout  dat.  He  de  fus'  w'ite  man  w'at  I  ever 
pick  up,  suh.     Yes,  suh  ;  de  ve'y  fus'  one;" 

"I  don't  understand  you,"  said  I;  "tell  me  about 
it." 

At  this  Aunt  Fountain  laughed  long  and  loudly. 
She  evidently  enjoyed  my  ignorance  keenly. 

"De  Lord  know  I  oughtn'  be  laughin'  like  dis. 
I  ain'  laugh  so  hearty  sence  I  wuz  little  gal  mos',  en 
dat  wuz  de  time  w'en  Marse  Rowan  Tomlinson  come 
'long  en  ax  me  my  name,  I  tell  'im,  I  did,  '  I'm 
name  Flew  Ellen,  suh.'  Marse  Rowan  he  deaf  ez 
any  dead  hoss.  He  'low,  '  Hey  ? '  I  say,  '  I'm 
name  Flew  Ellen,  suh.'     Marse  Rowan  say,  '  Foun- 


82  Aunt  Fountain's  Prisoner. 

tain  !  Huh  !  he  quare  name.'  I  holler  en  laugh,  en 
w'en  de  folks  ax  me  w'at  I  hollerin'  'bout,  I  tell  urn 
dat  Marse  Rowan  say  I'm  name  Fountain.  Well, 
suh,  fum  dat  day  down  ter  dis,  stedder  Flew  Ellen, 
I'm  bin  name  Fountain.  I  laugh  hearty  den  en  my 
name  got  change,  en  I  feared  ef  I  laugh  now  de 
hoss'll  run  away  en  turn  de  buggy  upperside  down 
right  spang  on  top  er  me." 

"But  about  this  Mr.  Trunion?"  said  I. 

"  Name  er  de  Lord ! "  exclaimed  Aunt  Fountain, 
ain'  you  never  is  bin  year  'bout  dat  ?  You  bin 
mighty  fur  ways,  suh,  kaze  we  all  bin  knowin'  'bout 
it  fum  de  jump." 

"  No  doubt.     Now  tell  me  about  it." 

Aunt  Fountain  shook  her  head,  and  her  face 
assumed  a  serious  expression. 

"  I  dunno  'bout  dat,  suh.  I  year  tell  dat  niggers 
ain'  got  no  business  fer  go  talkin'  'bout  fambly 
doin's.  Yit  dar  wuz  yo'  gran'mammy.  My  mistiss 
sot  lots  by  her,  en  you  been  bornded  right  yer  'long 
wid  um.  I  don't  speck  it'll  be  gwine  so  mighty  fur 
out'n  de  fambly  ef  I  tell  you  'bout  it." 

I  made  no  attempt  to  coax  Aunt  Fountain  to  tell 
me  about  Trunion,  for  I  knew  it  would  be  difficult  to 
bribe  her  not  to  talk  about  him.  She  waited  a  while, 
evidently  to  tease  my  curiosity ;  but  as  I  betrayed 
none,  and  even  made  an  effort  to  talk  about  some- 
thing else,  she  began  :  — 

"  Well,  suh,  you  ax  me  'bout  Marse  Fess  Trunion. 


Aunt  Fountain  s  Prisoner.  83 

I  know  you  bleeze  ter  like  dat  man.  He  ain'  b'long 
ter  we-all  folks,  no  furcler  dan  he  my  young  mistiss 
ole  man,  but  dee  ain'  no  finer  w'ite  man  dan  him. 
No,  suh ;  dee  ain'.  I  tell  you  dat  p'intedly.  De 
niggers,  dee  say  he  mighty  close  en  pinchin',  but 
deze  is  mighty  pinchin'  times  —  you  know  dat 
yo'se'f,  suh.  Ef  a  man  don'  fa'rly  fling  'way  he 
money,  dem  Tomlinson  niggers,  dee'll  say  he  mighty 
pinchin'.  I  hatter  be  pinchin'  myse'f,  suh,  kaze  I 
know  time  I  sell  my  ginger-cakes  dat  ef  I  don't  grip 
onter  de  money,  dee  won'  be  none  lef  fer  buy  flour 
en  'lasses  fer  make  mo'.  It  de  Lord's  trufe,  suh, 
kaze  I  done  had  trouble  dat  way  many's  de  time.  I 
say  dis  'bout  Marse  Fess  Trunion,  ef  he  ain'  got 
de  blood,  he  got  de  breedin'.  Ef  he  ain'  good  ez  de 
Tomlinsons,  he  lots  better  dan  some  folks  w'at  I 
know." 

I  gathered  from  all  this  that  Trunion  was  a  for- 
eigner of  some  kind,  but  I  found  out  my  mistake 
later. 

"  I  pick  dat  man  up  myse'f,  en  I  knows  'im  'most 
good  ez  ef  he  wuz  one  er  we-all." 

"What  do  you  mean  when  you  say  'you  picked 
him  up '  ? "  I  asked,  unable  to  restrain  my  impa- 
tience. 

"Well,  suh,  de  fus'  time  I  see  Marse  Fess 
Trunion  wuz  terreckerly  atter  de  Sherman  army 
come  'long.  Dem  wuz  hot  times,  suh,  col'  ez  de 
wedder  wuz.     Dee  wuz  in-about  er  million    un    um 


84  Aunt  Fountain's  Prisoner. 

look  like  ter  me,  en  dee  des  ravage  de  face  er  de 
yeth.  Dee  tuck  all  de  hosses,  en  all  de  cows,  en  all 
de  chickens.  Yes,  suh  ;  dee  cert'n'y  did.  Man 
come  'long,  en  'low,  'Aunty,  you  free  now,'  en  den 
he  tuck  all  my  ginger-cakes  w'at  I  bin  bakin'  'g'inst 
Chris'mus  ;  en  den  I  say,  '  Ef  I  wuz  free  ez  you  is, 
suh,  I'd  fling  you  down  en  take  dem  ginger-cakes 
'way  fum  you.'  Yes,  suh.  I  tole  'im  dat.  It  make 
me  mad  fer  see  de  way  dat  man  walk  off  wid  my 
ginger-cakes. 

"  I  got  so  mad,  suh,  dat  I  foller  'long  atter  him 
little  ways ;  but  dat  ain'  do  no  good,  kaze  he  come 
ter  whar  dee  wuz  some  yuther  men,  en  dee  'vide  up 
dem  cakes  till  dee  want  no  cake  lef.  Den  I  struck 
'cross  de  plan'ation,  en  walked  'bout  in  de  clrizzlin' 
rain  tell  I  cool  off  my  madness,  suh,  kaze  de  flour 
dat  went  in  dem  cakes  cos'  me  mos'  a  hunderd  dol- 
lars in  good  Confederick  money.  Yes,  suh ;  it  did 
dat.     En  I  work  for  dat  money  mighty  hard. 

"  Well,  suh,  I  ain'  walk  fur  'fo'  it  seem  like  I  year 
some  un  talkin'.  I  stop,  I  did,  en  lissen,  en  still  I 
year  um.  I  ain'  see  nobody,  suh,  but  still  I  year 
um.  I  walk  fus'  dis  away  en  den  dat  away,  en  den 
I  walk  'roun'  en  'roun',  en  den  it  pop  in  my  min' 
'bout  de  big  gully.  It  ain'  dar  now,  suh,  but  in  dem 
days  we  call  it  de  big  gully,  kaze  it  wuz  wide  en  deep. 
Well,  suh,'  fo'  I  git  clar  I  see  hoss-tracks,  en  dee  led 
right  up  ter  de  brink.  I  look  in,  I  did,  en  down  dar 
dee  wuz  a  man  en  a  hoss.     Yes,  suh ;  dee  wuz  bofe 


Aunt  Fountain's  Prisoner.  85 

down  dar.  De  man  wuz  layin'  out  flat  on  he  back, 
en  de  hoss  he  wuz  layin'  sorter  up  en  down  de 
gully  en  right  on  top  er  one  er  de  man  legs,  en 
eve'y  time  de  hoss'd  scrample  en  try  fer  git  up  de 
man  'ud  talk  at  'im.  I  know  dat  hoss  mus'  des 
nata'lly  a  groun'  dat  man  legs  in  de  yeth,  suh.  Yes, 
suh.  It  make  my  flesh  crawl  w'en  I  look  at  um. 
Yit  de  man  ain'  talk  like  he  mad.  No,  suh,  he 
ain' ;  en  it  make  me  feel  like  somebody  done  gone 
en  hit  me  on  de  funny-bone  w'en  I  year  'im  talkin' 
dat  away.  Eve'y  time  de  hoss  scuffle,  de  man  he 
'low,  '  Hoi'  up,  ole  fel,  you  er  mashin'  all  de  shape 
out'n  me.'  Dat  w'at  he  say,  suh.  En  den  he  'low, 
'  Ef  you  know  how  you  hurtin',  ole  fel,  I  des  know 
you'd  be  still.'     Yes,  suh.     Dem  he  ve'y  words. 

"All  dis  time  de  rain  wuz  a-siftin'  down.  It  fall 
mighty  saft,  but  'twuz  monst'ous  wet,  suh.  Bimeby 
I  crope  up  nigher  de  aidge,  en  w'en  de  man  see  me 
he  holler  out,  'Hoi'  on,  aunty;  don't  you  fall  down 
yer ! ' 

"  I  ax  'im,  I  say,  '  Marster,  is  you  hurted  much  ? ' 
Kaze  time  I  look  at  'im  I  know  he  ain'  de  villyun 
w'at  make  off  wid  my  ginger-cakes.  Den  he  'low, 
'I  speck  I  hurt  purty  bad,  aunty,  en  de  wuss  un  it  is 
dat  my  hoss  keep  hurtin'  me  mo'.' 

"  Den  nex'  time  de  hoss  move  it  errortate  me  so, 
suh,  dat  I  holler  at  'im  loud  ez  I  ken,  '  Wo  dar,  you 
scan'lous  villyun !  Wo ! '  Well,  suh,  I  speck  dat 
hoss  mus  a-bin  use'n  ter  niggers,  kaze  time  I  holler 


86  Aunt  Fountain's  Prisoner. 

at  'im  he  lay  right  still,  suh.  I  slid  clown  dat  bank, 
en  I  kotch  holter  dat  bridle  —  I  don't  look  like  I'm 
mighty  strong,  does  I,  suh  ? "  said  Aunt  Fountain, 
pausing  suddenly  in  her  narrative  to  ask  the  ques- 
tion. 

"Well,  no,"  said  I,  humoring  her  as  much  as  pos- 
sible. "You  don't  seem  to  be  as  strong  as  some 
people  I've  seen." 

"  Dat's  it,  suh  ! "  she  exclaimed.  "  Dat  w'at 
worry  me.  I  slid  down  dat  bank,  en  I  kotch  dat 
hoss  by  de  bridle.  De  man  say,  '  Watch  out  dar, 
aunty !  don't  let  he  foot  hit  you.  Dee  one  cripple 
too  much  now.'  I  ain'  pay  no  'tention,  suh.  I  des 
grab  de  bridle,  en  I  slew  dat  hoss  head  roun',  en  I 
fa'rly  lif  'im  on  he  foots.  Yes,  suh,  I  des  lif  'im  on 
he  foots.  Den  I  led  'im  down  de  gully  en  turnt  'im 
a-loose,  en  you  ain'  never  see  no  hoss  supjued  like 
dat  hoss  wuz,  suh.  Den  I  went  back  whar  de  man 
layin',  en  ax  'im  ef  he  feel  better,  en  he'  low  dat  he 
feel  like  he  got  a  big  load  lif  offen  he  min',  en  den, 
mos'  time  he  say  dat,  suh,  he  faint  dead  away.  Yes, 
suh.  He  des  faint  dead  away.  I  ain'  never  is  see 
no  man  like  dat,  w'at  kin  be  jokin'  one  minnit  en 
den  de  nex'  be  dead,  ez  you  may  say.  But  dat's 
Marse  Fess  Trunion,  suh.     Dat's  him  up  en  down. 

"  Well,  suh,  I  stan'  dar,  I  did,  en  I  ain'  know  w'at 
in  de  name  er  de  Lord  I  gwine  do.  I  wuz  des  ez 
wringin'  wet  ez  if  I'd  a-bin  baptize  in  de  water ;  en 
de  man  he  wuz  mo'  wetter  dan  w'at  I  wuz,  en  good- 


Aunt  Fountain's  Prisoner.  87 

ness  knows  how  long  he  bin  layin'  dar.  I  run  back 
ter  de  big-'ouse,  suh,  mighty  nigh  a  mile,  en  I  done 
my  level  bes'  fer  fin'  some  er  de  niggers  en  git  urn 
fer  go  wid  me  back  dar  en  git  de  man.  But  I  ain' 
fin'  none  un  um,  suh.  Dern  w'at  ain'  gone  wid  de 
Sherman  army,  dee  done  hide  out.  Den  I  went  in 
de  big-ouse,  suh,  en  tell  Mistiss  'bout  de  man  down 
dar  in  de  gully,  en  how  he  done  hurted  so  bad  he 
ain'  kin  walk.  Den  Mistiss  —  I  speck  you  done  fer- 
git  Mistiss,  suh  —  Mistiss,  she  draw  herse'f  up  en 
ax  w'at  business  dat  man  er  any  yuther  man  got  on 
her  plan'ation.  I  say,  '  Yassum,  dat  so  ;  but  he  done 
dar,  en  ef  he  stay  dar  he  gwine  die  dar.'  Yes,  suh; 
dat  w'at  I  say.  I  des  put  it  at  Mistiss  right  pine- 
blank. 

"Den  my  young  mistiss ■ — dat's  Miss  Lady,  suh  — 
she  say  dat  dough  she  spize  um  all  dez  bad  az  she 
kin,  dat  man  mus'  be  brung  away  from  dar.  Kaze, 
she  say,  she  don't  keer  how  yuther  folks  go  on,  de 
Tomlinsons  is  bleeze  to  do  like  Christun  people. 
Yes,  suh  ;  she  say  dem  ve'y  words.  Den  Mistiss, 
she  'low  dat  de  man  kin  be  brung  up,  en  put  in  de 
corn-crib,  but  Miss  Lady  she  say  no,  he  mus'  be 
brung  en  put  right  dar  in  de  big  'ouse  in  one  er  de 
up-sta'rs  rooms,  kaze  maybe  some  er  dem  State  er 
Georgy  boys  mought  be  hurted  up  dar  in  de  Norf, 
en  want  some  place  fer  stay  at.  Yes,  suh ;  dat  des 
de  way  she  talk.  Den  Mistiss,  she  ain'  say  nothin', 
yit  she  hoi'  her  head  mighty  high. 


88  Aunt  Fountain' 's  Prisoner. 

"  Well,  suh,  I  went  back  out  in  de  yard,  en  den 
I  went  'cross  ter  de  nigger-quarter,  en  I  ain'  gone 
fur  tell  I  year  my  ole  man  prayin'  in  dar  some'r's. 
I  know  'im  by  he  v'ice,  suh,  en  he  wuz  prayin'  des 
like  it  wuz  camp-meetin'  time.  I  hunt  'roun'  fer  'im, 
suh,  en  bimeby  I  fin'  'im  squattin'  down  behime  de 
do'.  I  grab  'im,  I  did,  en  I  shuck  'im,  en  I  'low, 
'  Git  up  fum  yer,  you  nasty,  stinkin'  ole  villyun,  you  ! ' 
Yes,  suh  ;  I  wuz  mad.  I  say,  '  Wat  you  doin'  squat- 
tin'  down  on  de  flo'  ?  Git  up  fum  dar  en  come  go 
'long  wid  me !  '  I  hatter  laugh,  suh,  kaze  w'en  I 
shuck  my  ole  man  by  de  shoulder,  en  holler  at  'im, 
he  put  up  he  two  han',  suh,  en  squall  out,  '  Oh,  pray 
marster !  don't  kill  me  dis  time,  en  I  ain'  never 
gwine  do  it  no  mo'  ! ' 

"  Atter  he  'come  pacify,  suh,  den  I  tell  him  'bout 
de  man  down  dar  in  de  gully,  en  yit  we  ain'  know 
w'at  ter  do.  My  ole  man  done  hide  out  some  er  de 
mules  en  hosses  down  in  de  swamp,  en  he  feard  ter 
go  atter  um,  suh,  kaze  he  skeerd  de  Sherman  army 
would  come  marchin'  back  en  fine  um,  en  he  'low 
dat  he  mos'  know  dee  er  comin'  back  atter  dat  man 
down  dar.  Yes,  suh  ;  he  de  skeerdest  nigger  w'at 
I  ever  see,  if  I  do  say  it  myse'f.  Yit,  bimeby  he 
put  out  atter  one  er  de  hosses,  en  he  brung  'im  back  ; 
en  we  hitch  'im  up  in  de  spring-waggin,  en  atter  dat 
man  we  went.  Yes,  suh  ;  we  did  dat.  En  w'en  we 
git  dar,  dat  ar  man  wuz  plum  ravin'  deestracted.  He 
wuz  laughin'  en  talkin'  wid  hese'f,  en  gwine  on,  tell 


Aunt  Fountain 's  Prisoner.  89 

it  make  yo'  blood  run  col'  fer  lissen  at  'im.  Yes, 
suh. 

"  Me  en  my  ole  man,  we  pick  'im  up  des  like  he 
wuz  baby.  I  come  mighty  nigh  droppin'  'im,  suh, 
kaze  one  time,  wiles  we  kyarn  'im  up  de  bank,  I  year 
de  bones  in  he  leg  rasp  up  'g'inst  one  er  n'er.  Yes, 
suh.  It  make  me  blin'  sick,  suh.  We  kyard  'im 
home  en  put  'im  up  st'ars,  en  dar  he  stayed  fer 
many's  de  long  day." 

"Where  was  Judge  Tomlinson?"  I  asked.  At 
this  Aunt  Fountain  grew  more  serious  than  ever,  — 
a  seriousness  that  was  expressed  by  an  increased  par- 
ticularity and  emphasis  in  both  speech  and  manner. 

"  You  axin'  'bout  Marster  ?  Well,  suh,  he  wuz 
dar.  He  wuz  cert'n'y  dar  wid  Mistiss  en  Miss  Lady, 
suh,  but  look  like  he  ain'  take  no  intruss  in  w'at 
gwine  on.  Some  folks  'low,  suh,  dat  he  ain'  right  in 
he  head,  but  dee  ain'  know  'im  —  dee  ain'  know  'im, 
suh,  like  we-all.  Endurin'  er  de  war,  suh,  he  wuz 
strucken  wid  de  polzy,  en  den  w'en  he  git  well,  he 
ain'  take  no  intruss  in  w'at  gwine  on.  Dey'd  be  long 
days,  suh,  w'en  he  ain'  take  no  notice  er  nobody  ner 
nuttin'  but  Miss  Lady.  He  des  had  dem  spells  ;  en 
den,  ag'in,  he'd  set  out  on  de  peazzer  en  sing  by 
hese'f,  en  it  make  me  feel  so  lonesome  dat  I  bleeze 
ter  cry.     Yes,  suh  ;  it's  de  Lord's  trufe. 

"Well,  suh,  dat  man  w'at  I  fin'  out  dar  in  de  gully 
wuz  Marse  Fess  Trunion.  Yes,  suh,  de  ve'y  same 
man.     Dee  ain'  no  tellin'  w'at  dat  po'  creetur  gone 


90  Aunt  Fountain's  Prisoner. 

thoo  wid.  He  had  fever,  he  had  pneumony,  en  he 
had  dat  broke  leg.  En  all  'long  wid  dat  dee  want 
skacely  no  time  w'en  he  want  laughin'  en  jokin'. 
Our  w'ite  folks,  dee  des  spized  'im  kase  he  bin  wid 
Sherman  army.  Dee  say  he  wuz  Yankee ;  but  I  tell 
um,  suh,  dat  ef  Yankee  look  dat  away  dee  wuz 
cert 'n'y  mighty  like  we-all.  Mistiss,  she  ain'  never 
go  'bout  'im  wiles  he  sick ;  en  Miss  Lady,  she  keep 
mighty  shy,  en  she  tu'n  up  her  nose  eve'y  time  she 
year  'im  laugh.  Oh,  yes,  suh  ;  dee  cert'n'y  spize  de 
Yankees  endurin'  er  dem  times.  Dee  hated  um 
rank,  suh.  I  tell  um,  I  say,  '  You-all  des  wait.  Dee 
ain'  no  nicer  man  dan  w'at  he  is,  en  you-all  des 
wait  tell  you  know  'im.'  Shoo  !  I  des  might  ez  well 
talk  ter  de  win',  suh,  —  dee  hate  de  Yankees  dat 
rank.       YT*3** 

"By  de  time  dat  man  git  so  he  kin  creep  'bout 
on  crutches,  he  look  mos'  good  ez  he  do  now.  He 
wuz  dat  full  er  life,  suh,  dat  he  bleeze  ter  go  down- 
sta'rs,  en  down  he  went.  Well,  suh,  he  wuz  mighty 
lucky  dat  day.  Kase  ef  he'd  a  run  up  wid  Mistiss  en 
Miss  Lady  by  hese'f,  dee'd  er  done  sumpn'  ner  fer 
ter  make  'im  feel  bad.  Dee  cert'n'y  would,  suh. 
But  dee  wuz  walkin'  'roun'  in  de  yard,  en  he  come 
out  on  de  peazzer  whar  Marster  wuz  sunnin'  hese'f 
and  singin'.  I  wouldn'  b'lieve  it,  suh,  ef  I  ain'  see 
it  wid  my  two  eyes  ;  but  Marster  got  up  out'n  he 
cheer,  en  straighten  hese'f,  en  shuck  han's  wid  Mars 
Fess,  en  look  like  he  know  all  'bout  it.     Dee  sot  dar, 


Aunt  Fountain's  Prisoner.  91 

suh,  en  talk  en  laugh,  en  laugh  en  talk,  tell  bimeby 
I  'gun  ter  git  skeerd  on  de  accounts  er  bofe  un  um. 
Dee  talk  'bout  de  war,  en  dee  talk  'bout  de  Yankees, 
en  dee  talk  politics  right  straight  'long  des  like 
Marster  done  'fo'  he  bin  strucken  wid  de  polzy. 
En  he  talk  sense,  suh.  He  cert'n'y  did.  Bimeby 
Mistiss  en  Miss  Lady  come  back  fum  dee  walk,  en 
dee  look  like  dee  gwine  drap  w'en  dee  see  w'at 
gwine  on.  Dern  two  mens  wuz  so  busy  talkin',  suh, 
dat  dee  ain'  see  de  wimmen  folks,  en  dee  des  keep 
right  on  wid  dee  argafyin'.  Mistiss  en  Miss  Lady, 
dee  ain'  know  w'at  ter  make  er  all  dis,  en  dee  stan 
dar  lookin'  fus'  at  Marster  en  den  at  one  er  n'er. 
Bimeby  dee  went  up  de  steps  en  start  to  go  by,  but 
Marster  he  riz  up  en  stop  um.  Yes,  suh.  He  riz 
right  up  en  stop  um,  en  right  den  en  dar,  suh,  he 
make  um  interjuced  ter  one  an'er.  He  stan'  up,  en 
he  say,  '  Mr.  Trim  ion,  dis  my  wife  ;  Mr.  Trunion, 
dis  my  daughter.' 

"  Well,  suh,  I  wuz  stannin'  back  in  de  big  hall,  en 
we'n  I  see  Marster  gwine  on  dat  away  my  knees 
come  mighty  nigh  failin'  me,  suh.  Dis  de  fus'  time 
w'at  he  reckermember  anybody  name,  an  de  fus' 
time  he  do  like  he  useter,  sence  he  bin  sick  wid  de 
polzy.  Mistiss  en  Miss  Lady,  dee  come  'long  in 
atter  w'ile,  en  dee  look  like  dee  skeerd.  Well,  suh, 
I  des  far'ly  preach  at  um.  Yes,  suh  ;  I  did  dat.  I 
say,  '  You  see  dat  ?  You  see  how  Marster  doin'  ? 
Ef  de  han'  er  de  Lord  ain'  in  dat,  den  he  han'  ain' 


92  Aunt  Fountain's  Prisoner. 

bin  in  nuttin'  on  cle  top  side  er  dis  yeth.'  I  say, 
'You  see  how  you  bin  cuttin'  up  'roun'  dat  sick 
w'ite  man  wid  yo'  biggity  capers,  en  yit  de  Lord 
retch  down  en  make  Marster  soun'  en  well  time  de 
yuther  w'ite  man  tetch  'im.'  Well,  suh,  dey  wuz  dat 
worked  up  dat  dey  sot  down  en  cried.  Yes,  suh ; 
dey  did  dat.  Dey  cried.  En  I  am'  tellin'  you  no  lie, 
suh,  I  stood  dar  en  cried  wid  um.  Let  'lone  dat, 
I  des  far'ly  boohooed.  Yes,  suh  ;  dat's  me.  Wen  I 
git  ter  cryin'  sho'  nuff,  I  bleeze  terjboohoo. 

"  Fum  dat  on,  Marster  do  like  hese'f,  en  talk  like 
hese'f.  It  look  like  he  bin  sleep  long  time,  suh,  en 
de  sleep  done  'im  good.  All  he  sense  come  back ; 
en  you  know,  suh,  de  Tomlinsons,  w'en  dey  at 
deese'f,  got  much  sense  ez  dee  want  en  some  fer 
give  way.  Mistiss  and  Miss  Lady,  dee  wuz  mighty 
proud  'bout  Marster,  suh,  but  dee  am'  fergit  dat  de 
yuther  man  wuz  Yankee,  en  dee  hoi'  deese'f  mon- 
st'ous  stiff.  He  notice  dat  hese'f,  en  he  want  ter 
go  'way,  but  Marster,  he  'fuse  ter  lissen  at  'im  right 
pine-plank,  suh.  He  say  de  dead  Tomlinsons  would 
in-about  turn  over  in  dee  graves  ef  dee  kriow  he  sont 
a  cripple  man  'way  from  he  'ouse.  Den  he  want  ter 
pay  he  board,  but  Marster  ain'  lissen  ter  dat,  en 
needer  is  Mistiss  ;  en  dis  mighty  funny,  too,  kaze 
right  dat  minnit  dee  want  a  half  er  dollar  er  good 
money  in  de  whole  fambly,  ceppin'  some  silver  w'at 
I  work  fer,  en  w'at  I  hide  in  er  chink  er  my  chimbly. 
No,  suh.     Dee  want  er  half   er  dollar  in  de  whole 


Aunt  Fountain 's  Prisoner.  93 

fambly,  suh.  En  yit  dee  won't  take  de  greenbacks 
w'at  dat  man  offer  urn. 

"  By  dat  time,  suh,  de  war  wuz  done  done,  en  dee 
wuz  tough  times.  Dee  cert'n'y  wuz,  suh.  De  rail- 
roads wuz  all  broke  up,  en  eve'y  thing  look  like  it 
gwine  helter-skelter  right  straight  ter  de  Ole  Boy. 
Dey  want  no  law,  suh,  en  dey  want  no  nuttin' ;  en 
ef  it  hadn't  er  bin  fer  me  en  my  ole  man,  I  speck 
de  Tomlinsons,  proud  ez  dee  wuz,  would  er  bin 
mightily  pincht  fer  fin'  bread  en  meat.  But  dee  ain' 
never  want  fer  it  yit,  suh,  kaze  w'en  me.  en  my  ole 
man  git  whar  we  can't  move  no  furder,  Marse  Fess 
Trunion,  he  tuck  holt  er  de  place  en  he  fetcht  it 
right  side  up  terreckerly.  He  say  ter  me  dat  he 
gwine  pay  he  board  dat  away,  suh,  but  he  ain'  say  it 
whar  de  Tomlinsons  kin  year  'im,  kaze  den  dee'd  a-bin 
a  fuss,  suh.  But  he  kotch  holt,  en  me,  en  him,  en  my 
ole  man,  we  des  he't  eve'y  thing  hot.  Mo'  speshually 
Marse  Fess  Trunion,  suh.  You  ain'  know  'im,  suh, 
but  dat  ar  w'ite  man,  he  got  mo'  ways  ter  work,  en 
mo'  short  cuts  ter  de  ways,  suh,  dan  any  w'ite  man 
w'at  I  ever  see,  en  I  done  see  lots  un  um.  It  got 
so,  suh,  dat  me  en  my  ole  man  ain'  have  ter  draw 
no  mo'  rashuns  fum  de  F'eedman  Bureau  ;  but  dee 
wuz  one  spell,  suh,  w'en  wuss  rashuns  dan  dem  wuz 
on  de  Tomlinson  table. 

"  Well,  suh,  dat  w'ite  man,  he  work  en  he  scuffle  ; 
he  hire  niggers,  and  he  turn  um  off ;  he  plan,  en  he 
projick  ;  en  'tain'   so  mighty  long,   suh,   'fo'  he   got 


94  Aunt  Fountain's  Prisoner. 

eve'y  thing  gwine  straight.  How  he  done  it,  I'll 
never  tell  you,  suh  ;  but  do  it  he  did.  He  put  he 
own  money  in  dar,  suh,  kaze  dee  wuz  two  times  dat  I 
knows  un  w'en  he  git  money  out'n  de  pos'-office,  en 
I  see  'im  pay  it  out  ter  de  niggers,  suh.  En  all  dat 
time  he  look  like  he  de  nappies'  w'ite  man  on  top  er 
de  groun',  suh.  Yes,  suh.  En  w'en  he  at  de  'ouse 
Marster  stuck  right  by  'im,  en  ef  he  bin  he  own  son 
he  couldn't  pay  him  mo'  'tention.  Dee  wuz  times, 
suh,  w'en  it  seem  like  ter  me  dat  Marse  Fess  Trunion 
wuz  a-cuttin'  he  eye  at  Miss  Lady,  en  den  I  'low 
ter  myse'f,  '  Shoo,  man !  you  mighty  nice  en  all  dat, 
but  you  Yankee,  en  you  nee'nter  be  a-drappin'  yo' 
wing  'roun'  Miss  Lady,  kaze  she  too  high-strung  fer 
dat.' 

"  It  look  like  he  see  it  de  same  way  I  do,  suh,  kaze 
atter  he  git  eve'y  thing  straight  he  say  he  gwine 
home.  Marster  look  like  he  feel  mighty  bad,  but 
Mistiss  en  Miss  Lady,  dee  ain'  say  nuttin'  'tall.  Den, 
atter  w'ile,  suh,  Marse  Fess  Trunion  fix  up,  en  off  he 
put.  Yes,  suh.  He  went  off  whar  he  come  fum,  en 
I  speck  he  folks  wuz  mighty  glad  ter  see  'im  atter  so 
long,  kaze  ef  dee  ever  wuz  a  plum  nice  man  it  wuz 
dat  man.  He  want  no  great  big  man,  suh,  en  he  ain' 
make  much  fuss,  yit  he  lef  a  mighty  big  hole  at  de 
Tomlinson  Place  w'en  he  pulled  out  fum  dar.  Yes, 
suh  ;  he  did  dat.  It  look  like  it  lonesome  all  over  de 
plan'ation.  Marster,  he'  gun  ter  git  droopy,  but  eve'y 
time  de  dinner  bell  rins:  he  go  ter  de  foot  er  de  sta'rs 


Aunt  Fountain's  Prisoner.  95 

en  call  out,  '  Come  on,  Trunion  ! '  Yes,  suh.  He 
holler  dat  out  eve'y  day,  en  den,  wiles  he  be  talkin', 
he'd  stop  en  look  roun'  en  say,  '  Whar  Trunion  ? ' 
It  ain'  make  no  diffunce  who  he  talkin'  wid,  suh,  he'd 
des  stop  right  still  en  ax,  '  Whar  Trunion  ? '  Den  de 
niggers,  dee  got  slack,  en  eve'y  thing  'gun  ter  go 
een'-ways.  One  day  I  run  up  on  Miss  Lady  settin' 
down  cryin',  en  I  ax  her  w'at  de  name  er  goodness 
de  matter,  en  she  say  nuff  de  matter.  Den  I  say  she 
better  go  ask  her  pappy  whar  Trunion,  en  den  she 
git  red  in  de  face,  en  'low  I  better  go  'ten'  ter  my 
business  ;  en  den  I  tell  her  dat  ef  somebody  ain'  tell 
us  whar  Trunion  is,  en  dat  mighty  quick,  dee  won't 
be  no  business  on  dat  place  fer  'ten'  ter.  Yes,  suh. 
I  tol'  her  dat  right  p'intedly,  suh.    ■ 

"  Well,  suh,  one  day  Marse  Fess  Trunion  come 
a-drivin'  up  in  a  shiny  double  buggy,  en  he  look  like 
he  des  step  right  out'n  a  ban'-box  ;  en  ef  ever  I  wuz 
glad  ter  see  anybody,  I  wuz  glad  ter  see  dat  man. 
Marster  wuz  glad  ;  en  dis  time,  suh,  Miss  Lady  wuz 
glad,  en  she  show  it  right  plain  ;  but  Mistiss,  she 
still  sniff  de  a'r  en  hoi'  her  head  high.  T'want  long, 
suh,  'fo'  we  all  knowd  dat  Marse  Fess  wuz  gwine 
marry  Miss  Lady.  I  ain'  know  how  dee  fix  it,  kaze 
Mistiss  never  is  come  right  out  en  say  she  'greeable 
'bout  it,  but  Miss  Lady  wuz  a  Bledsoe  too,  en  a 
Tomlinson  ter  boot,  en  I  ain'  never  see  nobody  w'at 
impatient  nuff  fer  ter  stan'  out  'g'inst  dat  gal.  It 
ain'  all  happen,  suh,  quick  ez  I  tell  it,  but  it  happen  ; 


g6  Aunt  Fountain's  Prisoner. 

en  but  fer  dat,  I  dunno  w'at  in  de  name  er  goodness 
would  er  'come  er  dis  place." 

A  few  hours  later,  as  I  sat  with  Trunion  on  the 
veranda  of  his  house,  he  verified  Aunt  Fountain's 
story,  but  not  until"  after  he  was  convinced  that  I  was 
familiar  with  the  history  of  the  family.  There  was 
much  in  that  history  he  could  afford  to  be  proud  of, 
modern  though  he  was.  A  man  who  believes  in  the 
results  of  blood  in  cattle  is  not  likely  to  ignore  the 
possibility  of  similar  results  in  human  beings ;  and  I 
think  he  regarded  the  matter  in  some  such  practical 
light.  He  was  a  man,  it  seemed,  who  was  disposed 
to  look  lightly  on  trouble,  once  it  was  over  with  ;  and 
I  found  he  was  not  so  much  impressed  with  his 
struggle  against  the  positive  scorn  and  contempt  of 
Mrs.  Tomlinson,  —  a  struggle  that  was  infinitely  more 
important  and  protracted  than  Aunt  Fountain  had 
described  it  to  be,  —  as  he  was  with  his  conflict  with 
Bermuda  grass.  He  told  me  laughingly  of  some  of 
his  troubles  with  his  hot-headed  neighbors  in  the 
early  days  after  the  war,  but  nothing  of  this  sort 
seemed  to  be  as  important  as  his  difficulties  with 
Bermuda  grass.  Here  the  practical  and  progressive 
man  showed  himself ;  for  I  have  a  very  vivid  recol- 
lection of  the  desperate  attempts  of  the  farmers  of 
that  region  to  uproot  and  destroy  this  particular 
variety. 

As  for  Trunion,  he  conquered  it  by  cultivating  it 
for  the  benefit  of  himself  and  his  neighbors ;  and  I 


Aunt  Fountain's  Prisoner.  97 

suspect  that  this  is  the  way  he  conquered  his  other 
opponents.  It  was  a  great  victory  over  the  grass,  at 
any  rate.  I  walked  with  him  over  the  place,  and  the 
picture  of  it  all  is  still  framed  in  my  mind, — the 
wonderful  hedges  of  Cherokee  roses,  and  the  fragrant 
and  fertile  stretches  of  green  Bermuda  through  which 
beautiful  fawn-colored  cattle  were  leisurely  making 
their  way.  He  had  a  theory  that  this  was  the  only 
grass  in  the  world  fit  for  the  dainty  Jersey  cow  to  eat. 

There  were  comforts  and  conveniences  on  the 
Tomlinson  Place  not  dreamed  of  in  the  old  days,  and 
I  think  there  was  substantial  happiness  there  too. 
Trunion  himself  was  a  wholesome  man,  a  man  full  of 
honest  affection,  hearty  laughter,  and  hard  work,  —  a 
breezy,  companionable,  energetic  man.  There  was 
something  boyish,  unaffected,  and  winsome  in  his 
manners ;  and  I  can  easily  understand  why  Judge 
Addison  Tomlinson,  in  his  old  age,  insisted  on  aston- 
ishing his  family  and  his  guests  by  exclaiming, 
"Where's  Trunion?"  Certainly  he  was  a  man  to 
think  about  and  inquire  after. 

I  have  rarely  seen  a  lovelier  woman  than  his  wife, 
and  I  think  her  happiness  helped  to  make  her  so. 
She  had  inherited  a  certain  degree  of  cold  stateliness 
from  her  ancestors  ;  but  her  experience  after  the  war, 
and  Trunion's  unaffected  ways,  had  acted  as  powerful 
correctives,  and  there  was  nothing  in  the  shape  of 
indifference  or  haughtiness  to  mar  her  singular 
beauty. 


98  Aunt  Fountain 's  Prisoner. 

As  for  Mrs.  Tomlinson,  —  the  habit  is  still  strong 
in  me  to  call  her  Harriet  Bledsoe,  —  I  think  that  in 
her  secret  soul  she  had  an  ineradicable  contempt  for 
Trunion's  extraordinary  business  energy.  I  think 
his  "push  and  vim,"  as  the  phrase  goes,  shocked 
her  sense  of  propriety  to  a  far  greater  extent  than 
she  would  have  been  willing  to  admit.  But  she 
had  little  time  to  think  of  these  matters  ;  for  she  had 
taken  possession  of  her  grandson,  Master  Addison 
Tomlinson  Trunion,  and  was  absorbed  in  his  wild 
and  boisterous  ways,  as  grandmothers  will  be.  This 
boy,  a  brave  and  manly  little  fellow,  had  Trunion's 
temper,  but  he  had  inherited  the  Tomlinson  air.  It 
became  him  well,  too,  and  I  think  Trunion  was  proud 
of  it. 

"  I  am  glad,"  said  I,  in  parting,  "  that  I  have  seen 
Aunt  Fountain's  Prisoner." 

"Ah!"  said  he,  looking  at  his  wife,  who  smiled 
and  blushed,  "  that  was  during  the  war.  Since  then 
I  have  been  a  Prisoner  of  Peace." 

I  do  not  know  what  industrial  theories  Trunion 
has  impressed  on  his  neighborhood  by  this  time ; 
but  he  gave  me  a  practical  illustration  of  the  fact 
that  one  may  be  a  Yankee  and  a  Southerner  too, 
simply  by  being  a  large  -  hearted,  whole  -  souled 
American. 


TROUBLE    ON    LOST    MOUNTAIN. 

THERE  is  no  doubt  that  when  Miss  Babe  High- 
tower  stepped  out  on  the  porch,  just  after  sun- 
rise one  fine  morning  in  the  spring  of  1876,  she  had 
the  opportunity  of  enjoying  a  scene  as  beautiful  as 
any  that  nature  offers  to  the  human  eye.  She  was 
poised,  so  to  speak,  on  the  shoulder  of  Lost  Moun- 
tain, a  spot  made  cheerful  and  hospitable  by  her 
father's  industry,  and  by  her  own  inspiring  presence. 
The  scene,  indeed,  was  almost  portentous  in  its 
beauty.  Away  above  her  the  summit  of  the  moun- 
tain was  bathed  in  sunlight,  while  in  the  valley  below 
the  shadows  of  dawn  were  still  hovering, — a  slow- 
moving  sea  of  transparent  gray,  touched  here  and 
there  with  silvery  reflections  of  light.  Across  the 
face  of  the  mountain  that  lifted  itself  to  the  skies,  a 
belated  cloud  trailed  its  wet  skirts,  revealing,  as  it 
fled  westward,  a  panorama  of  exquisite  loveliness. 
The  fresh,  tender  foliage  of  the  young  pines,  massed 
here  and  there  against  the  mountain  side,  moved  and 
swayed  in  the  morning  breeze  until  it  seemed  to  be 
a  part  of  the  atmosphere,  a  pale-green  mist  that 
would  presently  mount  into  the  upper  air  and  melt 
away.     On  a  dead  pine  a  quarter  of  a  mile  away,  a 

99 


IOO  Trouble  on  Lost  Mountain. 

turkey-buzzard  sat  with  wings  outspread  to  catch  the 
warmth  of  the  sun ;  while  far  above  him,  poised  in 
the  illimitable  blue,  serene,  almost  motionless,  as 
though  swung  in  the  centre  of  space,  his  mate  over- 
looked the  world.  The  wild  honeysuckles  clambered 
from  bush  to  bush,  and  from  tree  to  tree,  mingling 
their  faint,  sweet  perfume  with  the  delicious  odors 
that  seemed  to  rise  from  the  valley,  and  float  down 
from  the  mountain  to  meet  in  a  little  whirlpool  of 
fragrance  in  the  porch  where  Miss  Babe  Hightower 
stood.  The  flowers  and  the  trees  could  speak  for 
themselves  ;  the  slightest  breeze  gave  them  motion  : 
but  the  majesty  of  the  mountain  was  voiceless  ;  its 
beauty  was  forever  motionless.  Its  silence  seemed 
more  suggestive  than  the  lapse  of  time,  more  pro- 
found than  a  prophet's  vision  of  eternity,  more 
mysterious  than  any  problem  of  the  human  mind. 

It  is  fair  to  say,  however,  that  Miss  Babe  High- 
tower  did  not  survey  the  panorama  that  lay  spread 
out  below  her,  around  her,  and  above  her,  with  any 
peculiar  emotions.  She  was  not  without  sentiment, 
for  she  was  a  young  girl  just  budding  into  woman- 
hood, but  all  the  scenery  that  the  mountain  or  the 
valley  could  show  was  as  familiar  to  her  as  the  fox- 
hounds that  lay  curled  up  in  the  fence-corners,  or 
the  fowls  that  crowed  and  clucked  and  cackled  in  the 
yard.  She  had  discovered,  indeed,  that  the  individu- 
ality of  the  mountain  was  impressive,  for  she  was 
always  lonely  and  melancholy  when   away  from   it ; 


Trouble  on  Lost  Mountain.  ioi 

but  she  viewed  it,  not  as  a  picturesque  affair  to 
wonder  at,  but  as  a  companion  with  whom  she  might 
hold  communion.  The  mountain  was  something 
more  than  a  mountain  to  her.  Hundreds  of  times, 
when  a  little  child,  she  had  told  it  her  small  troubles, 
and  it  had  seemed  to  her  that  the  spirit  of  comfort 
dwelt  somewhere  near  the  precipitous  summit.  As 
she  grew  older  the  mountain  played  a  less  important 
part  in  her  imagination,  but  she  continued  to  regard 
it  with  a  feeling  of  fellowship  which  she  never 
troubled  herself  to  explain  or  define. 

Nevertheless,  she  did  not  step  out  on  the  porch  to 
worship  at  the  shrine  of  the  mountain,  or  to  enjoy 
the  marvellous  picture  that  nature  presented  to  the 
eye.  She  went  out  in  obedience  to  the  shrilly 
uttered  command  of  her  mother,  — 

"Run,  Babe,  run  !  That  plegged  old  cat's  a-tryin' 
to  drink  out'n  the  water-bucket.  Fling  a  cheer  at 
'er!     Sick  the  dogs  on  'er." 

The  cat,  understanding  the  situation,  promptly  dis- 
appeared when  it  saw  Babe,  and./ 'the  latter  had 
nothing  to  do  but  make  such  demonstrations  as  are 
natural  to  youth,  if  not  to  beauty.  She  seized  one 
of  the  many  curious  crystal  formations  which  she 
had  picked  up  on  the  mountain,  and  employed  for 
various  purposes  of  ornamentation,  and  sent  it  flying 
after  the  cat.  She  threw  with  great  strength  and 
accuracy,  but  the  cat  was  gone.  The  crystal  went 
zooning   into   the   fence-corner   where    one    of    the 


102  Trouble  on  Lost  Mountain. 

hounds  lay ;  and  this  sensitive  creature,  taking  it  for 
granted  that  he  had  been  made  the  special  object  of 
attack,  set  up  a  series  of  loud  yells  by  way  of  pro- 
test. This  aroused  the  rest  of  the  dogs,  and  in  a 
moment  that  particular  part  of  the  mountain  was  in 
an  uproar.  Just  at  that  instant  a  stalwart  man  came 
around  the  corner  of  the  house.  He  was  bareheaded, 
and  wore  neither  coat  nor  vest.  He  was  tall  and 
well  made,  though  rather  too  massive  to  be  supple. 
His  beard,  which  was  full  and  flowing,  was  plenti- 
fully streaked  with  gray.  His  appearance  would 
have  been  strikingly  ferocious  but  for  his  eyes,  which 
showed  a  nature  at  once  simple  and  humorous,  — 
and  certainly  the  strongly  moulded,  square-set  jaws, 
and  the  firm  lips  needed  some  such  pleasant 
corrective. 

"  Great  Jerusalem,  Babe  ! "  cried  this  mild-eyed 
giant.  "  What  could  'a'  possessed  you  to  be 
a-chunkin'  ole  Blue  that  away  ?  Ag'in  bullaces  is 
ripe  you'll  git  your  heart  sot  on  'possum,  an'  whar' 
is  the  'possum  comin'  from  ef  ole  Blue's  laid  up  ? 
Blame  my  hide  ef  you  ain't  a-cuttin'  up  some  mighty 
quare  capers  fer  a  young  gal." 

"Why,  Pap!"  exclaimed  Babe,  as  soon  as  she 
could  control  her  laughter,  "that  rock  didn't  tetch 
ole  Blue.  He's  sech  a  make-believe,  I'm  a  great 
mind  to  hit  him  a  clip  jest  to  show  you  how  he  can 
go  on." 

"  Now,  don't  do  that,  honey,"  said  her  father.     "  Ef 


Trouble  on  Lost  Mountain.  103 

you  want  to  chunk  anybody,  chunk  me.  I  kin  holler 
lots  purtier'n  ole  Blue.  An'  ef  you  don't  want  to 
chunk  me  chunk  your  mammy  fer  ole  acquaintance 
sake.     She's  big  an'  fat." 

"  Oh,  Lordy ! "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Hightower  from  the 
inside  of  the  house.  "  Don't  set  her  atter  me,  Abe, 
—  don't,  fer  mercy's  sake.  Get  her  in  the  notion, 
an'  she'll  be  a-yerkin'  me  aroun'  thereckly  like  I  wuz 
a  rag-baby.  I'm  a-gittin'  too  ole  fer  ter  be  romped 
aroun'  by  a  great  big  double-j'inted  gal  like  Babe. 
Projick  wi'  'er  yourself,  but  make  'er  let  me  alone." 

Abe  turned  and  went  around  the  house  again, 
leaving  his  daughter  standing  on  the  porch,  her 
cheeks  glowing,  and  her  black  eyes  sparkling  with 
laughter.  Babe  loitered  on  the  porch  a  moment, 
looking  into  the  valley.  The  gray  mists  had  lifted 
themselves  into  the  upper  air,  and  the  atmosphere 
was  so  clear  that  the  road  leading  to  the  mountain 
could  be  followed  by  the  eye,  save  where  it  ran  under 
the  masses  of  foliage ;  and  it  seemed  to  be  a  most 
devious  and  versatile  road,  turning  back  on  itself  at 
one  moment  only  to  plunge  boldly  forward  the  next. 
Nor  was  it  lacking  in  color.  On  the  levels  it  was  of 
dazzling  whiteness,  shining  like  a  pool  of  water ;  but 
at  points  where  it  made  a  visible  descent,  it  was 
alternately  red  and  gray.  Something  or  other  on 
this  variegated  road  attracted  Miss  Babe's  attention, 
for  she  shaded  her  eyes  with  her  hand,  and  leaned 
forward.     Presently  she  cried  out,  — 


104  Trouble  on  Lost  Mountain. 

"  Pap !  —  oh,  pap  !  there's  a  man  a-ridin'  up  Peevy's 
Ridge." 

This  information  was  repeated  by  Babe's  mother ; 
and  in  a  few  moments  the  porch,  which  was  none  too 
commodious,  though  it  was  very  substantial,  was 
occupied  by  the  entire  Hightower  family,  which  in- 
cluded Grandsir  Hightower,  a  white-haired  old  man, 
whose  serenity  seemed  to  be  borrowed  from  another 
world.  Mrs.  Hightower  herself  was  a  stout,  motherly- 
looking  woman,  whose  whole  appearance  betokened 
contentment,  if  not  happiness.  Abe  shaded  his  eyes 
with  his  broad  hand,  and  looked  towards  Peevy's 
Ridge. 

"  I  reckon  maybe  it's  Tuck  Peevy  hisse'f,"  Mrs. 
Hightower  remarked. 

"  That's  who  I  'lowed  hit  wuz,"  said  Grandsir 
Hightower,  in  the  tone  of  one  who  had  previously 
made  up  his  mind. 

"Well,  I  reckon  I  ought  to  know  Tuck  Peevy," 
exclaimed  Babe. 

"That's  so,"  said  Grandsir  Hightower.  "Babe 
oughter  know  Tuck.  She  oughter  know  him  certain 
an'  shore;  bekaze'he's  bin  a-floppin'  in  an'  out  er 
this  house  ever'  Sunday  fer  mighty  nigh  two  year'. 
Some  sez  he  likes  Babe,  an'  some  sez  he  likes  Susan's 
fried  chicken.     Now,  in  my  day  and  time  "  — 

"  He's  in  the  dreen  now,"  said  Babe,  interrupting 
her  loquacious  grandparent,  who  threatened  to  make 
some  embarrassing  remark.    ."He's  a-ridin'  a  gray." 


Trouble  on  Lost  Mountain.  105 

"  He's  a  mighty  early  bird,"  said  Abe,  "less'n  he's 
a-headin'  fer  the  furder  side.  Maybe  he's  a  revenue 
man,"  he  continued.  "  They  say  they're  a-gwine  to 
heat  the  hills  mighty  hot  from  this  on." 

"  You  hain't  got  nothing  gwine  on  down  on  the 
branch,  is  you,  Abe?  "  inquired  Grandsir  Hightower, 
with  pardonable  solicitude. 

"  Well,"  said  Abe  evasively,  "  I  hain't  kindled  no 
fires  yit,  but  you  better  b'lieve  I'm  a-gwine  to  keep 
my  beer  from  sp'ilin'.  The  way  I  do  my  countin', 
one  tub  of  beer  is  natchally  wuth  two  revenue 
chaps." 

By  this  time  the  horseman  who  had  attracted 
Babe's  attention  came  into  view  again.  Abe  studied 
him  a  moment,  and  remarked,  — 

"  That  hoss  steps  right  along,  an'  the  chap  a-strad- 
dle  of  him  is  got  on  store-clo'es.  Fetch  me  my  rifle, 
Babe.  I'll  meet  that  feller  half-way  an'  make  some 
inquirements  about  his  famerly,  an'  maybe  I'll  fetch 
a  squir'l  back." 

With  this  Abe  called  to  his  dogs,  and  started  off. 

"Better  keep  your  eye  open,  Pap,"  cried  Sis. 
"Maybe  it's  the  sheriff." 

Abe  paused  a  moment,  and  then  pretended  to  be 
hunting  a  stone  with  which  to  demolish  his  daughter, 
whereupon  Babe  ran  laughing  into  the  house.  The 
allusion  to  the  sheriff  was  a  stock  joke  in  the  High- 
tower  household,  though  none  of  them  made  such 
free  use  of  it  as  Babe,  who  was  something  more  than 


106  Trouble  o?i  Lost  Mountain. 

a  privileged  character,  so  far.  as  her  father  was  con- 
cerned. On  one  occasion  shortly  after  the  war,  Abe 
had  gone  to  the  little  county  town  on  business,  and 
had  been  vexed  into  laying  rough  hands  on  one  of 
the  prominent  citizens  who  was  a  trifle  under  the 
influence  of  liquor.  A  warrant  was  issued,  and  Dave 
McLendon,  the  sheriff  of  the  county,  a  stumpy  little 
man,  whose  boldness  and  prudence  made  him  the 
terror  of  criminals,  was  sent  to  serve  it.  Abe,  who 
was  on  the  lookout  for  some  such  visitation,  saw  him 
coming,  and  prepared  himself.  He  stood  in  the 
doorway,  with  his  rifle  flung  carelessly  across  his  left 
arm. 

"  Hold  on  thar,  Dave ! "  he  cried,  as  the  latter 
came  up.     The  sheriff,  knowing  his  man,  halted. 

"  I  hate  to  fling  away  my  manners,  Dave,"  he  went 
on,  "but  folks  is  gittin'  to  be  mighty  funny  these 
days.  A  man's  obleeged  to  s'arch  his  best  frien's 
'fore  he  kin  find  out  the'r  which-aways.  Dave,  what 
sort  of  a  dockyment  is  you  got  ag'in'  me  ? " 

"I  got  a  warrant,  Abe,"  said  the  sheriff  pleas- 
antly. 

"Well,  Dave,  hit  won't  fetch  me,"  said  Abe. 

"  Oh,  yes  !  "  said  the  sheriff.  "  Yes,  it  will,  Abe. 
I  bin  a-usin'  these  kind  er  warrants  a  mighty  long 
time,  an'  they  fetches  a  feller  every  whack." 

"Now,  I'll  tell  you  what,  Dave,"  said  Abe,  patting 
his  rifle,  "  I  got  a  dockyment  here  that'll  fetch  you  a 
blame  sight  quicker'n  your  dockyment'll  fetch  me ; 


Trouble  on  Lost  Mountain.  107 

an'  I  tell  you  right  now,  plain-  an'  flat,  I  hain't 
a-gwine  to  be  drug  aroun'  an'  slapped  in  jail." 

The  sheriff  leaned  carelessly  against  the  rail  fence 
in  the  attitude  of  a  man  who  is  willing  to  argue  an 
interesting  question. 

"Well,  I  tell  you  how  I  feel  about  it,  Abe,"  said 
the  sheriff,  speaking  very  slowly.  "You  kin  shoot 
me,  but  you  can't  shoot  the  law.  Bang  away  at  me, 
an'  thar's  another  warrant  atter  you.  This  yer  one 
what  I'm  already  got  don't  amount  to  shucks,  so  you 
better  fling  on  your  coat,  saddle  your  ho*rse,  an'  go 
right  along  wi'  me  thes  ez  neighborly  ez  you  please." 

"Dave,"  said  Abe,  "if  you  come  in  at  that  gate 
you  er  a  goner." 

"Well,  Abe,"  the  sheriff  replied,  "I  'lowed  you'd 
kick ;  I  know  what  human  natur'  on  these  hills  is, 
an'  so  I  thes  axed  some  er  the  boys  to  come  along. 
They  er  right  down  thar  in  the  holler.  They  hain't 
got  no  mo'  idea  what  I  come  fer'n  the  man  in  the 
moon ;  yit  they'd  make  a  mighty  peart  posse. 
Tooby  shore,  a  great  big  man  like  you  ain't  afeard 
fer  ter  face  a  little  bit  er  law." 

Abe  Hightower  hesitated  a  moment,  and  then 
went  into  the  house.  In  a  few  minutes  he  issued 
forth  and  went  out  to  the  gate  where  the  sheriff  was. 
The  faces  of  the  two  men  were  a  study.  Neither 
betrayed  any  emotion  nor  alluded  to  the  warrant. 
The  sheriff  asked  after  the  "crap;"  and  Abe  told 
him  it  was  "middlin'  peart,"  and  asked  him  to  go 


108  Trouble  on  Lost  Mountain. 

into  the  house  and  make  himself  at  home  until  the 
horse  could  be  saddled.  After  a  while  the  two  rode 
away.     Once  during  the  ride  Abe  said,  — 

"  I'm  mighty  glad  it  wa'n't  that  feller  what  run 
ag'in'  you  last  fall,  Dave." 

"  Why  ?  "  asked  the  sheriff. 

"  Bekaze  I'd  'a'  plugged  him,  certain  an'  shore," 
said  Abe. 

"Well,"  said  the  sheriff,  laughing,  "  I  wuz  a-wish- 
in'  mighty  hard  thes  about  that  time  that  the  t'other 
feller  had  got  'lected." 

The  warrant  amounted  to  nothing,  and  Abe  was 
soon  at  home  with  his  family ;  but  it  suited  his  high- 
spirited  daughter  to  twit  him  occasionally  because  of 
his  tame  surrender  to  the  sheriff,  and  it  suited  Dave 
to  treat  the  matter  good-humoredly. 

Abe  Hightower  took  his  way  down  the  mountain; 
and  about  two  miles  from  his  house,  as  the  road  ran, 
he  met  the  stranger  who  had  attracted  Babe's  atten- 
tion. He  was  a  handsome  young  fellow,  and  he  was 
riding  a  handsome  horse,  —  a  gray,  that  was  evidently 
used  to  sleeping  in  a  stable  where  there  was  plenty 
of  fee^  in  the  trough.  The  rider  also  had  a  well-fed 
appearance.  He  sat  his  horse  somewhat  jauntily, 
and  there  was  a  jocund  expression  in  his  features 
very  pleasing  to  behold.  He  drew  rein  as  he  saw 
Abe,  and  gave  a  military  salute  in  a  careless,  off-hand 
way  that  was  in  strict  keeping  with  his  appearance. 

"Good-morning,  sir,"  he  said. 


Trouble  on  Lost  Mountain.  109 

"  Howdy  ?  "  said  Abe. 

"  Fine  day  this." 

"Well,  what  little  I've  saw  of  it  is  purty  tollerbul." 

The  young  fellow  laughed,  and  his  laughter  was 
worth  hearing.     It  had  the  ring  of  youth  in  it. 

"  Do  you  chance  to  know  a  Mr.  Hightower  ?  "  he 
asked,  throwing  a  leg  over  the  pommel  of  the  saddle. 

"Do  he  live  anywheres  aroun'  in  these  parts?" 
Abe  inquired. 

"So  I'm  told." 

"Well,  the  reason  I  ast,"  said  Abe,  leaning  his 
rifle  against  a  tree,  "is  bekaze  they  mought  be  more'n 
one  Hightower  runnin'  loose." 

"  You  don't  know  him,  then  ?  " 

"  I  know  one  on  'em.     Any  business  wi'  him  ?  " 

"  Well,  yes,  —  a  little.  I  was  told  he  lived  on  this 
road.     How  far  is  his  house  ?  " 

"Well,  I'll  tell  you,"  — Abe  took  off  his  hat  and 
scratched  his  head,  —  "  some  folks  mought  take  a 
notion  hit  wuz  a  long  ways  off,  an'  then,  ag'in,  yuther 
folks  mought  take  a  notion  that  hit  wuz  lots  nigher. 
Hit's  accordin'  to  the  way  you  look  at  it." 

"  Is  Mr.  Hightower  at  home  ?  "  inquired  the  young 
stranger,  regarding  Abe  with  some  degree  of  curi- 
osity. 

"Well,"  said  Abe  cautiously,  "I  don't  reckon  he's 
right  slam  bang  at  home,  but  I  lay  he  ain't  fur 
off." 

"  If  you  happen  to  see  him,  pray  tell  him  there's 


no  Trouble  on  Lost  Mountain. 

a  gentleman  at  his  house  who  would  like  very  much 
to  see  him." 

"  Well,  I  tell  you  what,  mister,"  said  Abe,  speaking 
very  slowly.  "  You're  a  mighty  nice  young  feller,  — 
anybody  kin  shet  the'r  eyes  and  see  that,  — but  folks 
'roun'  here  is  mighty  kuse  ;  they  is  that  away.  Ef  I 
was  you,  I'd  thes  turn  right  'roun'  in  my  tracks  'n'  let 
that  ar  Mister  Hightower  alone.  I  wouldn't  pester 
wi'  'im.     He  hain't  no  fitten  company  fer  you." 

"  Oh,  but  I  must  see  him,"  said  the  stranger.  "  I 
have  business  with  him.  Why,  they  told  me  down 
in  the  valley  that  Hightower,  in  many  respects,  is 
the  best  man  in  the  county." 

Abe  smiled  for  the  first  time.  It  was  the  ghost  of 
a  smile. 

"Shoo!"  he  exclaimed.  "They  don't  know  him 
down  thar  nigh  as  good  as  he's  know'd  up  here.  An' 
that  hain't  all.  Thish  yer  Mister  Hightower  you  er 
talkin'  about  is  got  a  mighty  bad  case  of  measles  at 
his  house.  You'd  be  ableedze  to  ketch  'em  ef  you 
went  thar." 

"  I've  had  the  measles,"  said  the  stranger. 

"But  these  here  measles,"  persisted  Abe,  half 
shutting  his  eyes  and  gazing  at  the  young  man  stead- 
ily, "  kin  be  cotched  twice-t.  Theyer  wuss  'n  the 
small-pox,  —  lots  wuss." 

"  My  dear  sir,  what  do  you  mean  ?  "  the  young  man 
inquired,  observing  the  significant  emphasis  of  the 
mountaineer's  language. 


Trouble  on  Lost  Mountain.  in 

"Hit's  thes  like  I  tell  you,"  said  Abe.  "Looks 
like  folks  has  mighty  bad  luck  when  they  go  a-rippit- 
in'  hether  an'  yan  on  the  mounting.  It  hain't  been 
sech  a  monst'us  long  time  sence  one  er  them  rev- 
nue  fellers  come  a-paradin'  up  thish  yer  same  road, 
a-makin'  inquirements  for  Hightower.  He  cotch  the 
measles  ;  bless  you,  he  took  an'  cotch  'em  by  the  time 
he  got  in  hailin'  distance  of  Hightower's,  an'  he  had 
to  be  toted  down.  I  disremember  his  name,  but  he 
wuz  a  mighty  nice-lookin'  young  feller,  peart  an' 
soople,  an'  thes  about  your  size  an'  weight." 

"  It  was  no  doubt  a  great  pity  about  the  revenue 
chap,"  said  the  young  man  sarcastically. 

"Lor',  yes!"  exclaimed  Abe  seriously;  "lots  er 
nice  folks  must  'a'  cried  about  that  man." 

"Well,"  said  the  other  smiling,  "I  must  see  High- 
tower.  I  guess  he's  a  nicer  man  than  his  neighbors 
think  he  is." 

"Shoo!"  said  Abe,  "he  hain't  a  bit  nicer'n  what 
I  am,  an'  I  lay  he  hain't  no  purtier.  What  mought 
be  your  name,  mister  ?  " 

"My  name  is  Chichester,  and  I'm  buying  land  for 
some  Boston  people.  I  want  to  buy  some  land  right 
on  this  mountain  if  I  can  get  it  cheap  enough." 

"Jesso,"  said  Abe,  "but  wharbouts  in  thar  do 
Hightower  come  in  ?  " 

'/Oh,  he  knows  all  about  the  mountain,  and  I 
want  to  ask  his  advice  and  get  his  opinions,"  said 
Chichester. 


112  Trouble  on  Lost  Mountain. 

Something  about  Mr.  Chichester  seemed  to  attract 
Abe  Hightower.  Perhaps  it  was  the  young  fellow's 
fresh,  handsome  appearance ;  perhaps  it  was  his  free- 
and-easy  attitude,  suggestive  of  the  commercial  tour- 
ist, that  met  the  approbation  of  the  mountaineer.  At 
any  rate,  Abe  smiled  upon  the  young  man  in  a 
fatherly  way  and  said,  — 

"  'Twixt  you  an'  me  an'  yon  pine,  you  hain't  got  no 
furder  to  go  fer  to  strike  up  wi'  Hightower.  I'm  the 
man  you  er  atter." 

Chichester  regarded  him  with  some  degree  of 
amazement. 

"My  dear  sir,"  he  exclaimed,  "why  should  you 
desire  to  play  the  sphinx  ?  " 

"  Spinks  ?  "  said  Abe,  with  something  like  a  grim- 
ace ;  "  the  Spinks  famerly  lived  furder  up  the  moun- 
ting, but  they  er  done  bin  weeded  out  by  the  revenue 
men  too  long  ago  to  talk  about.  The  ole  man's  in 
jail  in  Atlanty  er  some'rs  else,  the  boys  is  done  run'd 
off,  an'  the  gal's  a  trollop.  No  Spinks  in  mine,  cap', 
ef  you  please  !  " 

Chichester  laughed  at  the  other's  earnestness.  He 
mistook  it  for  drollery. 

"I  let  you  know,  cap',"  Abe  went  on,  "you  can't 
be  boss  er  your  own  doin's  an'  give  ever'  passin'  man 

your  name." 

J  y 

"  Well,  I'm  very  glad  to  meet  you,"  said  Chicbes- 
ter  heartily ;  "  I'll  have  a  good  deal  of  business  in 
this  neighborhood  first  and  last,  and  I'm  told  there 


Trouble  on  Lost  Mountain.  113 

isn't  any  thing  worth  knowing  about  the  mountain 
that  you  don't  know." 

"That  kind  er  talk,"  Abe  replied,  "kin  be  run  in 
the  groun',  yit  I  hain't  a-denyin'  but  what  I've  got 
a  kind  er  speakin'  acquaintance  wi'  the  neighbor- 
hood whar  I'm  a-livin'  at.  Ef  you  er  huntin'  my 
house,  thes  drive  right  on.  I'll  be  thar  ag'in  you  git 
thar." 

Chichester  found  a  very  cordial  welcome  awaiting 
him  when  he  arrived  at  Hightower's  house.  Even 
the  dogs  were  friendly,  and  the  big  cat  came  out 
from  its  hiding-place  to  rub  against  his  legs  as  he 
sat  on  the  little  porch. 

"  By  the  time  you  rest  your  face  an'  han's,"  said 
Abe,  "  I  reckon  breakfast'll  be  ready." 

Chichester,  who  was  anxious  to  give  no  trouble, 
explained  that  he  had  had  a  cup  of  coffee  at  Peevy's 
before  starting  up  the  mountain.  He  said,  more- 
over, that  the  mountain  was  so  bracing  that  he  felt 
as  if  he  could  fast  a  week  and  still  fatten. 

"Well,  sir,"  Abe  remarked,  "hit's  mighty  little 
we  er  got  to  offer,  an'  that  little's  mighty  common, 
but,  sech  as  'tis,  you  er  more'n  welcome.  Hit's 
diffunt  wi'  me  when  the  mornin'  air  blows  at  me. 
Hit  makes  me  wanter  nibble  at  somepin'.  I  dunner 
whar  you  come  from,  an'  I  ain't  makin'  no  inquire- 
ments,  but  down  in  these  parts  you  can't  spat  a  man 
harder  betwixt  the  eyes  than  to  set  back  an'  not 
break  bread  wi'  'im." 


114  Trouble  on  Lost  Mountain. 

Mr.  Chichester  had  been  warned  not  to  wound  the 
hospitality  of  the  simple  people  among  whom  he  was 
going,  and  he  was  quick  to  perceive  that  his  refusal 
to  "break  bread"  with  the  Hightowers  would  be 
taken  too  seriously.  Whereupon,  he  made  a  most 
substantial  apology,  —  an  apology  that  took  the  shape 
of  a  ravenous  appetite,  and  did  more  than  justice  to 
Mrs!  Hightower's  fried  chicken,  crisp  biscuits,  and 
genuine  coffee.  Mr.  Chichester  also  made  himself 
as  agreeable  as  he  knew  how,  and  he  was  so  pleased 
with  the  impression  he  made  that  he,  on  his  side, 
admitted  to  himself  that  the  Hightowers  were 
charmingly  quaint,  especially  the  shy  girl  of  whom 
he  caught  a  brief  glimpse  now  and  then  as  she 
handed  her  mother  fresh  supplies  of  chicken  and 
biscuits. 

There  was  nothing  mysterious  connected  with  the 
visit  of  Mr.  Chichester  to  Lost  Mountain.  He  was 
the  agent  of  a  company  of  Boston  capitalists  who 
were  anxious  to  invest  money  in  Georgia  marble- 
quarries,  and  Chichester  was  on  Lost  Mountain  for 
the  purpose  of  discovering  the  marble  beds  that  had 
been  said  by  some  to  exist  there.  He  had  the  ver- 
satility of  a  modern  young  man,  being  something  of 
a  civil  engineer  and  something  of  a  geologist ;  in 
fine,  he  was  one  of  the  many  "general-utility"  men 
that  improved  methods  enable  the  high  schools  and 
colleges  to  turn  out.  Pie  was  in  the  habit  of  making 
himself  agreeable  wherever  he  went,  but  behind  his 


Trouble  on  Lost  Mountain.  1 1 5 

levity  and  general  good  humor  there  was  a  good  deal 
of  seriousness  and  firmness  of  purpose. 

He  talked  with  great  freedom  to  the  Hightowers, 
giving  a  sort  of  commercial  coloring,  so  to  speak,  to 
the  plans  of  his  company  with  respect  to  land  invest- 
ments on  Lost  Mountain  ;  but  he  said  nothing  about 
his  quest  for  marble. 

"The  Lord  send  they  won't  be  atter  fetchin'  the 
railroad  kyars  among  us,"  said  Grandsir  Hightower 
fervently. 

"Well,  sir,"  said  Chichester,  "there  isn't  much 
danger." 

"Now,  I  dunno  'bout  that,"  said  the  old  man 
querulously,  "  I  dunno  'bout  that.  They're  gittin' 
so  these  days  they'll  whirl  in  an'  do  e'enamost  any 
thing  what  you  don't  want  'em  to  do.  I  kin  stan' 
out  thar  in  the  hoss-lot  any  cle'r  day  an'  see  the 
smoke  er  their  ingines,  an'  sometimes  hit  looks  like 
I  kin  hear  'em  snort  an'  cough.  They  er  plenty 
nigh  enough.  The  Lord  send  they  won't  fetch  'em 
no  nigher.  Fum  Giner'l  Jackson's  time  plump  tell 
now,  they  er  bin  a-fetchin'  destruction  to  the  coun- 
try. You'll  see  it.  I  mayn't  see  it  myself,  but 
you'll  see  it.  Fust  hit  was  Giner'l  Jackson  an'  the 
bank,  an'  now  hit's  the  railroad  kyars.  You'll  see 
it!" 

"And  yet,"  said  Chichester,  turning  towards  the 
old  man,  as  Hope  might  beam  benignantly  on  the 
Past,  "everybody  and  everything  seems  to  be  get- 


ri6  Trouble  on  Lost  Mountain. 

ting  along  very  well.  I  think  the  only  thing  neces- 
sary now  is  to  invent  something  or  other  to  keep 
the  cinders  out  of  a  man's  eyes  when  he  rides  on  the 
railroads." 

"  Don't  let  'em  fool  you,"  said  the  old  man 
earnestly.  "  Ever'  thing's  in  a  tangle,  an'  ther 
hain't  no  Whig  party  for  to  ontangle  it.  Giner'l 
Jackson  an'  the  cussid  bank  is  what  done  it." 

Just  then  Miss  Babe  came  out  on  the  little  porch, 
and  seated  herself  on  the  bench  that  ran  across  one 
end.  "  Cap',"  said  Abe,  with  some  show  of  embar- 
rassment, as  if  not  knowing  how  to  get  through  a 
necessary  ceremony,  "this  is  my  gal,  Babe.  She's 
the  oldest  and  the  youngest.  I'm  name'  Abe  an' 
she's  name'  Babe,  sort  er  rhymin'  like." 

The  unaffected  shyness  of  the  young  girl  was 
pleasant  to  behold,  and  if  it  did  not  heighten  her 
beauty,  it  certainly  did  not  detract  from  it.  It  was 
a  shyness  in  which  there  was  not  an  awkward 
element,  for  Babe  had  the  grace  of  youth  and  beauty, 
and  conscious  independence  animated  all  her  move- 
ments. 

"'Ceppin'  me  an'  the  ole  'oman,"  said  Abe,  "Babe 
is  the  best-lookin'  one  er  the  famerly." 

The  girl  reddened  a  little,  and  laughed  lightly 
with  the  air  of  one  who  is  accustomed  to  give  and 
take  jokes,  but  said  nothing. 

"  I  heard  of  Miss  Babe  last  night,"  said  Chichester, 
"  and  I've  got  a  message  for  her." 


Trouble  on  Lost  Mountain.  117 

"Wait!"  exclaimed  Abe  triumphantly;  "I'll  bet 
a  hoss  I  kin  call  the  name  'thout  movin'  out'n  my 
cheer.  Hold  on  !  "  he  continued.  "  I'll  bet  another 
hoss  I  kin  relate  the  message  word  for  word." 

Babe  blushed  violently,  but  laughed  good-hu- 
moredly.  Chichester  adjusted  himself  at  once  to 
this  unexpected  informality,  and  allowed  himself 
to  become  involved  in  it. 

"Come,  now  !  "  he  exclaimed,  "  I'll  take  the  bet." 

"I  declare!"  said  Mrs.  Hightower,  laughing,  "you 
all  oughtn'  to  pester  Babe  that  away." 

"Wait ! "  said  Abe.  "The  name  er  the  man  what 
sont  the  word  is  Tuck  Peevy,  an'  when  he  know'd 
you  was  a-comin'  here,  he  sort  er  sidled  up  an'  ast 
you  for  to  please  be  so  good  as  to  tell  Miss  Babe 
he'd  drap  in  nex'  Sunday,  an'  see  what  her  mammy 
is  a-gwine  ter  have  for  dinner." 

"Well,  I  have  won  the  bet,"  said  Chichester. 
"  Mr.  Peevy  simply  asked  me  to  tell  Miss  Babe  that 
there  would  be  a  singing  at  Philadelphia  camp- 
ground Sunday.  I  hardly  know  what  to  do  with 
two  horses." 

"Maybe  you'll  feel  better,"  said  Abe,  "when 
somebody  tells  you  that  my  hoss  is  a  mule.  Well, 
well,  well !  "  he  went  on.  "  Tuck  didn't  say  he  was 
comin',  but  I  be  boun'  he  comes,  an'  more'n  that,  I 
be  boun'  a  whole  passel  er  gals  an'  boys'll  foller  Babe 
home." 

"In  giner'lly,"  said  Grandsir  Hightower,  "I  hate 


1 1 8  Trouble  on  Lost  Mountain. 

for  to  make  remarks  'bout  folks  when  they  hain't 
settin'  whar  they  kin  hear  me,  but  that  ar  Tuck 
Peevy  is  got  a  mighty  bad  eye.  I  hearn  'im  a-quollin' 
wi'  one  er  them  Simmons  boys  las'  Sunday  gone 
wuz  a  week,  an'  I  tell  you  he's  got  the  Ole  Boy  in 
'im.     An'  his  appetite's  wuss'n  his  eye." 

"Well,"  said  Mrs.  Hightower,  "nobody  'roun' 
here  don't  begrudge  him  his  vittles,  I  reckon." 

"Oh,  by  no  means,  —  by  no  manner  er  means," 
said  the  old  man,  suddenly  remembering  the  pres- 
ence of  Chichester.  "Yit  they  oughter  be  reason 
in  all  things  ;  that's  what  I  say,  —  reason  in  all 
things,  speshually  when  hit  comes  to  gormandizin'." 

The  evident  seriousness  of  the  old  man  was  very 
comical.  He  seemed  to  be  possessed  by  the  unrea- 
sonable economy  that  not  infrequently  seizes  on  old 
age. 

"They  hain't  no  begrudgin'  'roun'  here,"  he  went 
on.  "  Lord  !  ef  I'd  'a'  bin  a-begrudgin'  I'd  'a'  thes 
natchally  bin  e't  up  wi'  my  begrudges.  What  wer* 
the  word  the  poor  creetur  sent  to  Babe  ?  " 

Chichester  repeated  the  brief  and  apparently 
uninteresting  message,  and  Grandsir  Hightower 
groaned  dismally. 

"  I  dunner  what  sot  him  so  ag'in  Tuck  Peevy," 
said  Abe,  laughing.  "Tuck's  e'en  about  the  peart- 
est  chap  in  the  settlement,  an'  a  mighty  handy  man, 
put  him  whar  you  will." 

"Why,  Aberham  ! "  exclaimed  the  old  man,  "yoji 


Trouble  on  Lost  Mountain.  119 

go  on  like  a  man  what's  done  gone  an'  took  leave  of 
his  sev'm  senses.  You  dunner  what  sot  me  ag'in' 
the  poor  creetur  ?  Why,  time  an'  time  ag'in  I've 
tol'  you  it's  his  ongodly  hankerin'  atter  the  flesh- 
pots.  The  Bible's  ag'in'  it,  an'  I'm  ag'in  it.  Whar- 
bouts  is  it  put  down  that  a  man  is  ever  foun'  grace 
in  the  cubberd  ?  " 

"Well,  I  lay  a  man  that  works  is  boun'  ter  eat," 
said  Abe. 

"Oh,  /hain't  no  'count,  —  /  can't  work,"  said  the 
old  man,  his  wrath,  which  had  been  wrought  to  a 
high  pitch,  suddenly  taking  the  shape  of  plaintive 
humility.  "  Yit  'tain't  for  long.  I'll  soon  be  out'n 
the  way,  Aberham." 

"Shoo  !  "  said  Abe,  placing  his  hand  affectionately 
on  the  old  man's  shoulder.  "You  er  mighty  nigh  as 
spry  as  a  kitten.  Babe,  honey,  fill  your  grandsir's 
pipe.     He's  a-missin'  his  mornin'  smoke." 

Soothed  by  his  pipe,  the  old  man  seemed  to  forget 
the  existence  of  Tuck  Peevy,  and  his  name  came  up 
for  discussion  no  more. 

But  Chichester,  being  a  man  of  quick  perceptions, 
gathered  from  the  animosity  of  the  old  man,  and  the 
rather  uneasy  attitude  of  Miss  Babe,  that  the  dis- 
cussion of  Peevy's  appetite  had  its  origin  in  the 
lover-like  attentions  which  he  had  been  paying  to 
the  girl.  Certainly  Peevy  was  excusable,  and  if  his 
attentions  had  been  favorably  received,  he  was  to  be 
congratulated,   Chichester  thought  ;   for  in  all   that 


120  Trouble  on  Lost  Mountain. 

region  it  would  have  been  difficult  to  find  a  lovelier 
specimen  of  budding  womanhood  than  the  young 
girl  who  had  striven  so  unsuccessfully  to  hide  her 
embarrassment  as  her  grandfather  proceeded,  with 
the  merciless  recklessness  of  age,  to  criticise  Peevy's 
strength  and  weakness  as  a  trencherman. 

As  Chichester  had  occasion  to  discover  afterwards, 
Peevy  had  his  peculiarities ;  but  he  did  not  seem  to 
be  greatly  different  from  other  young  men  to  be 
found  in  that  region.  One  of  his  peculiarities  was 
that  he  never  argued  about  any  thing.  He  had 
opinions  on  a  great  many  subjects,  but  his  reasons 
for  holding  his  opinions  he  kept  to  himself.  The 
arguments  of  those  who  held  contrary  views  he 
would  listen  to  with  great  patience,  even  with  inter- 
est ;  but  his  only  reply  would  be  a  slow,  irritating 
smile  and  a  shake  of  the  head.  Peevy  was  homely, 
but  there  was  nothing  repulsive  about  his  homeli- 
ness. He  was  tall  and  somewhat  angular ;  he  was 
sallow ;  he  had  high  cheek-bones,  and  small  eyes  that 
seemed  to  be  as  alert  and  as  watchful  as  those  of  a 
ferret ;  and  he  was  slow  and  deliberate  in  all  his 
movements,  taking  time  to  digest  and  consider  his 
thoughts  before  replying  to  the  simplest  question, 
and  even  then  his  reply  was  apt  to  be  evasive.  But 
he  was  good-humored  and  obliging,  and,  conse- 
quently, was  well  thought  of  by  his  neighbors  and 
acquaintances. 

There  was  one  subject  in  regard  to  which  he  made 


Trouble  on  Lost  Mountain.  121 

no  concealment,  and  that  was  his  admiration  for 
Miss  Babe  Hightower.  So  far  as  Peevy  was  con- 
cerned, she  was  the  one  woman  in  the  world.  His 
love  for  her  was  a  passion  at  once  patient,  hopeful, 
and  innocent.  He  displayed  his  devotion  less  in 
words  than  in  his  attitude  ;  and  so  successful  had  he 
been  that  it  was  generally  understood  that  by  camp- 
meeting  time  Miss  Babe  Hightower  would  be  Mrs. 
Tuck  Peevy.  That  is  to  say,  it  was  understood  by 
all  except  Grandsir  Hightower,  who  was  apt  to 
chuckle  sarcastically  when  the  subject  was  broached. 

"They  hain't  arry  livin'  man,"  he  would  say, 
"what's  ever  seed  anybody  wi'  them  kind  er  eyes 
settled  clown  an'  married.  No,  sirs  !  Plit's  the  vit- 
tles  Tuck  Peevy's  atter.  Why,  bless  your  soul  an' 
body !  he  thes  natchally  dribbles  at  the  mouth  when 
he  gits  a  whiff  from  the  dinner-pot." 

Certainly  no  one  would  have  supposed  that  Tuck 
Peevy  ever  had  a  sentimental  emotion  or  a  romantic 
notion,  but  Grandsir  Hightower  did  him  great  injus- 
tice. Behind  his  careless  serenity  he  was  exceed- 
ingly sensitive.  It  is  true  he  was  a  man  difficult  to 
arouse ;  but  he  was  what  his  friends  called  "  a 
mighty  tetchy  man"  on  some  subjects,  and  one  of 
these  subjects  was  Babe.  Another  was  the  revenue 
men.  It  was  generally  supposed  by  Peevy's  acquaint- 
ances on  Lost  Mountain,  that  he  had  a  moonshine 
apparatus  over  on  Sweetwater ;  but  this  supposition 
was  the  result,  doubtless,  of  his  well-known  preju- 


122  Trouble  on  Lost  Mountain. 

dice  against  the  deputies  sent  out  to  enforce  the 
revenue  laws. 

It  had  been  the  intention  of  Chichester  to  remain 
only  a  few  days  in  that  neighborhood  ;  but  the  High- 
towers  were  so  hospitably  inclined,  and  the  outcrop- 
pings  of  minerals  so  interesting,  that  his  stay  was 
somewhat  prolonged.  Naturally,  he  saw  a  good  deal 
of  Peevy,  who  knew  all  about  the  mountain,  and  who 
was  frequently  able  to  go  with  him  on  his  little 
excursions  when  Abe  Hightower  was  otherwise 
engaged.  Naturally  enough,  too,  Chichester  saw  a 
great  deal  of  Babe.  He  was  interested  in  her 
because  she  was  young  and  beautiful,  and  because  of 
her  quaint  individuality.  She  was  not  only  uncon- 
ventional, but  charmingly  so.  Her  crudeness  and 
her  ignorance  seemed  to  be  merely  phases  of  origi- 
nality. 

Chichester's  interest  in  Babe  was  that  of  a  studi- 
ously courteous  and  deferent  observer,  but  it  was 
jealously  noted  and  resented  by  Tuck  Peevy.  The 
result  of  this  was  not  at  first  apparent.  For  a  time 
Peevy  kept  his  jealous  suggestions  to  himself,  but  he 
found  it  impossible  to  conceal  their  effect.  Gradu- 
ally, he  held  himself  aloof,  and  finally  made  it  a 
point  to  avoid  Chichester  altogether.  For  a  time 
Babe  made  the  most  of  her  lover's  jealousy.  After 
the  manner  of  her  sex,  she  was  secretly  delighted  to 
discover  that  he  was  furious  at  the  thought  that  she 
might  inadvertently  have  cast  a  little  bit  of  a  smile 


Trouble  on  Lost  Mountain.  123 

■'' 
at   Mr.    Chichester ;    and  on   several   occasions    she 

heartily  enjoyed  Peevy's  angry  suspicions.  But  after 
a  while  she  grew  tired  of  such  inconsistent  and  fool- 
ish manifestations.  They  made  her  unhappy,  and 
she  was  too  vigorous  and  too  practical  to  submit  to 
unhappiness  with  that  degree  of  humility  which  her 
more  cultivated  sisters  sometimes  exhibit. 

One  Sunday  afternoon,  knowing  Chichester  to  be 
away,  Tuck  Peevy  sauntered  carelessly  into  High- 
tower's  yard,  and  seated  himself  on  the  steps  of  the 
little  porch.  It  was  his  first  visit  for  several  days, 
and  Babe  received  him  with  an  air  of  subdued  cool- 
ness and  indifference  that  did  credit  to  her  sex. 

"Wharbouts  is  your  fine  gent  this  mornin' ? " 
inquired  Peevy,  after  a  while. 

"  Wharbouts  is  who  ?  " 

"Your  fine  gent  wi'  the  sto'-clo'es  on." 

"  I  reckon  you  mean  Cap'n  Chichester,  don't  you?" 
inquired  Babe  innocently. 

"  Oh,  yes  !  "  exclaimed  Peevy  ;  "he's  the  chap  I'm 
a-making  my  inquirements  atter." 

"  He's  over  on  Sweetwater,  I  reckon.  Leastways 
thar's  vvhar  he  started  to  go," 

"  On  Sweetwater.  Oh,  yes  !  "  Peevy  paused  and 
ran  his  long  slim  fingers  through  his  thin  straight 
hair.  "  I'm  mighty  much  afeard,"  he  went  on  after 
a  pause,  "  that  that  fine  gent  o'  yourn  is  a-gwine  ter 
turn  out  for  to  be  a  snake.     That's  what  I'm  afeard 


124  Trouble  on  Lost  Mountain. 

"Well,"  said  Babe,  with  irritating  coolness,  "he 
don't  do  any  of  his  sneakin'  aroun'  here.  Ef  he 
sneaks,  he  goes  some'ers  else  to  sneak.  He  don't 
hang  aroun'  an'  watch  his  chance  to  drap  in  an'  pay 
his  calls.  I  reckon  he'd  walk  right  in  at  the  gate 
thar  ef  he  know'd  the  Gov'ner  er  the  State  wuz 
a-settin'  here.  I'm  mighty  glad  I  hain't  saw  none  er 
his  sneakin'." 

Peevy  writhed  under  this  comment  on  his  own 
actions,  but  said  nothing  in  reply. 

"You  don't  come  to  see  folks  like  you  useter," 
said  Babe,  softening  a  little.  "  I  reckon  you  er 
mighty  busy  down  thar  wi'  your  craps." 

Peevy  smiled  until  he  showed  his  yellow  teeth.  It 
was  not  intended  to  be  a  pleasant  smile. 

"  I  reckon  I  come  lots  more'n  I'm  wanted,"  he 
replied.  "  I  hain't  got  much  sense,"  he  went  on, 
"  but  I  got  a  leetle  bit,  an'  I  know  when  my  room's 
wuth  more'n  my  comp'ny." 

"  Your  hints  has  got  more  wings'n  stings,"  said 
Babe.  "  But  ef  I  had  in  my  min'  what  you  er  got  in 
yourn  "  — 

"  Don't  say  the  word,  Babe  !  "  exclaimed  Peevy, 
for  the  first  time  fixing  his  restless  eyes  on  her  face. 
"Don't!" 

"  Yes,  I'll  say  it,"  said  Babe  solemnly.  "  I  oughter 
'a'  said  it  a  long  time  ago  when  you  wuz  a-cuttin'  up 
your  capers  bekaze  Phli  Varnadoe  wuz  a-comin'  here 
to  see  Pap.     I  oughter  'a'  said  it  then,  but  I'll  say  it 


Trouble  on  Lost  Mountain.  125 

now,  right  pine-blank.  Ef  I  had  in  my  min'  what 
you  er  got  in  yourn,  I  wouldn't  never  darken  this 
door  no  more." 

Peevy  rose,  and  walked  up  and  down  the  porch. 
He  was  deeply  moved,  but  his  face  showed  his  emo- 
tion only  by  a  slight  increase  of  sallowness.  Finally 
he  paused,  and  looked  at  Babe. 

"  I  lay  you'd  be  mighty  glad  ef  I  didn't  come  no 
more,"  he  said,  with  a  half  smile.  "  I  reckon  it 
kinder  rankles  you  for  to  see  old  Tuck  Peevy  a-hang- 
in'  roun'  when  the  t'other  feller's  in  sight." 

Babe's  only  reply  was  a  scornful  toss  of  the  head. 

"Oh,  yes!"  Peevy  went  on,  "hit  rankles  you 
might'ly ;  yit  I  lay  it  won't  rankle  you  so  much  atter 
your  daddy  is  took  an'  jerked  off  to  Atlanty.  I  tell 
you,  Babe,  that  ar  man  is  one  er  the  revenues  —  they 
hain't  no  two  ways  about  that." 

Babe  regarded  her  angry  lover  seriously. 

"  Hit  ain't  no  wonder  you  make  up  your  min'  ag'in' 
him  when  you  er  done  made  it  up  ag'in'  me.  I  know 
in  reason  they  must  be  somep'n  'nother  wrong  when 
a  great  big  grown  man  kin  work  hisself  up  to  holdin' 
spite.  Goodness  knows,  I  wish  you  wuz  like  you 
useter  be  when  I  fust  know'd  you." 

Peevy's  sallow  face  flushed  a  little  at  the  re- 
membrance of  those  pleasant,  peaceful  days ;  but, 
somehow,  the  memory  of  them  had  the  effect  of  in- 
tensifying his  jealous  mood. 

"  'Tain't  me  that's  changed  aroun',"  he  exclaimed 


126  Trouble  on  Lost  Mountain. 

passionately,  "an'  'tain't  the  days  nuther.  Hit's  you, 
—  you!  An'  that  fine  gent  that's  a-hanging  roun' 
here  is  the  'casion  of  it.  Ever\whar  I  go,  hit's  the 
talk.     Babe,  you  know  you  er  lovin'  that  man  !  " 

Peevy  was  wide  of  the  mark,  but  the  accusation 
was  so  suddenly  and  so  bluntly  made  that  it  brought 
the  blood  to  Babe's  face,  —  a  tremulous  flush  that 
made  her  fairly  radiant  for  a  moment.  Undoubtedly 
Mr.  Chichester  had  played  a  very  pleasing  part  in 
her  youthful  imagination,  but  never  for  an  instant 
had  he  superseded  the  homely  figure  of  Tuck  Peevy. 
The  knowledge  that  she  was  blushing  gave  Babe  an 
excuse  for  indignation  that  women  are  quick  to  take 
advantage  of.  She  was  so  angry,  indeed,  that  she 
made  another  mistake. 

"Why,  Tuck  Peevy!"  she  cried,  "you  shorely 
must  be  crazy.  He  wouldn't  wipe  his  feet  on  sech 
as  me  !  "  - 

"  No,"  said  Peevy,  "  I  'lowed  he  wouldn't,  an'  I 
'lowed  as  how  you  wouldn't  wipe  your  feet  on  me." 
He  paused  a  moment,  still  smiling  his  peculiar  smile. 
"  Hit's  a  long  ways  down  to  Peevy,  ain't  it  ?•" 

"You  er  doin'  all  the  belittlin',"  said  Babe. 

"Oh,  no,  Babe!  Ever'thing's  changed./'Why, 
even  them  dogs  barks  atter  me.  Ever'thing's  turned 
wrong-sud-outerds.     An'  you  er  changed  wuss'n  all." 

"  Well,  you  don't  reckon  I'm  a-gwine  ter  run  out'n 
the  gate  „thar  an'  fling  myself  at  you,  do  you  ? " 
exclaimed  Babe. 


J 


Trouble  on  Lost  Mountain.  127 

"  No,  I  don't.     I've    thes    come  to-day  for  to  git 
a  cle'r  understan'in'."     He  hesitated  a  moment  and 
then  went    on  :  "  Babe,  will   you  marry  me  to-mor- 
row ?  "     He  asked  the  question  with  more  eagerness  ■ 
than  he  had  yet  displayed. 

"No,  I  won't!"  exclaimed  Babe,  "ner  the  nex' 
day  nuther.  The  man  I  marry'll  have  a  lots  better 
opinion  of  me  than  what  you  er  got." 

Babe  was  very  indignant,  but  she  paused  to  see 
what  effect  her  words  would  have.  Peevy  rubbed  his 
hands  nervously  together,  but  he  made  no  response. 
His  serenity  was  more  puzzling  than  that  of  the 
mountain.  He  still  smiled  vaguely,  but  it  was  not  a 
pleasing  smile.  He  looked  hard  at  Babe  for  a  mo- 
ment, and  then  down  at  his  clumsy  feet.  His  agita- 
tion was  manifest,  but  it  did  not  take  the  shape  of 
words.  In  the  trees  overhead  two  jays  were  quarrel- 
ling with  a  cat-bird,  and  in  the  upper  air  a  bee-martin 
was  fiercely  pursuing  a  sparrow-hawk. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  after  a  while,  "  I  reckon  I  better 
be  gwine." 

"Wait  till  your  hurry's  over,"  said  Babe,  in  a 
gentler  tone. 

Peevy  made  no  reply,  but  passed  out  into  the  road, 
and  disappeared  down  the  mountain.     Babe  followed ~ 
him  to  the  gate,  and  stood  looking  after  him  ;  but  he^ 
turned  his  head  neither  to  the  right  nor  to  the  left, 
and  in  a  little  while  she  went  into  the  house  with  her 
head  bent  upon  her  bosom.     She  was  weeping. 


128  Trouble  on  Lost  Mountain. 

Grandsir  Hightower,  who  had  shuffled  out  on  the 
porch  to  sun  himself,  stared  at  the  girl  with  amaze- 
ment. 

"  Why,  honey !  "  he  exclaimed,  "  what  upon  the 
top  side  er  the  yeth  ails  you  ?  " 

"Tuck  has  gone  home  mad,  an'  he  won't  never 
come  back  no  more,"  she  cried. 

"  What's  the  matter  wi'  'im  ?  " 

"  Oh,  he's  thes  mad  along  er  me." 

"  Well,  well,  well !  "  exclaimed  the  old  man,  fum- 
bling feebly  in  his  pockets  for  his  red  bandanna  hand- 
kerchief, "  what  kind  of  a  come-off  is  this  ?  Did 
you  ast  him  to  stay  to  dinner,  honey  ?  " 

"No  —  no  ;  he  didn't  gimme  a  chance." 

"I  'lowed  you  didn't,"  exclaimed  Grandsir  High- 
tower  triumphantly.  "  I  thes  natchally  'lowed  you 
didn't.  That's  what  riled  'im.  An'  now  he'll  go  off 
an'  vilify  you.  Well,  well,  well !  he's  missed  his  din- 
ner !  The  fust  time  in  many's  the  long  day.  Watch 
'im,  Babe !  Watch  'im,  honey !  The  Ole  Boy's  in 
'im.  I  know  'im  ;  I've  kep'  my  two  eyes  on  'im. 
For  a  mess  er  turnip-greens  an'  dumperlin's  that 
man  'u'd  do  murder."  The  old  man  paused  and 
looked  all  around,  as  if  by  that  means  to  dissi- 
pate a  suspicion  that  he  was  dreaming.  "  An'  so 
Tuck  missed  his  dinner !  Tooby  shore,  —  tooby 
shore ! " 

"Oh,  hit  ain't  that,"  cried  Babe  ;  "he's  jealous  of 
Cap'n  Chichester." 


Trotible  on  Lost  Mountain.  129 

"  Why,  the  good  Lord,  honey  !  what  makes  you  run 
on  that  away  ? " 

"He  tol'  me  so,"  said  Babe. 

"Jealous!"  exclaimed  Grandsir  Hightower,  "jeal- 
ous er  that  young  feller  !  Merciful  powers,  honey ! 
he's  a-begrudgin'  'im  the  vittles  what  he  eats.  I 
know'd  it  the  minnit  I  seed  'im  come  a-sa'nterin'  in 
the  yard.  Lord,  Lord  !  I  wish  in  my  soul  the  poor 
creetur  could  git  a  chance  at  one  er  them  ar  big  Whig 
barbecues  what  they  useter  have." 

But  there  was  small  consolation  in  all  this  for 
Babe ;  and  she  went  into  the  house,  where  her  forlorn 
appearance  attracted  the  attention  of  her  mother. 

"  Why,  Babe  !  what  in  the  worl' ! "  exclaimed  this 
practical  woman,  dropping  her  work  in  amazement. 
"What  in  the  name  er  sense  ails  you  ? " 

Babe  had  no  hesitation  in  telling  her  mother  the 
facts. 

"  Well,  my  goodness  !  "  was  Mrs.  Hightower's 
comment,  "  I  wouldn't  go  aroun'  whinin'  about  it,  ef 
I  wuz  you  —  that  I  wouldn't.  Nobody  never  ketched 
me  whinin'  'roun'  atter  your  pappy  'fore  we  wuz  mar- 
ried, an'  he  wuz  lots  purtier  than  what  Tuck  Peevy  is. 
When  your  pappy  got  tetchy,  I  thes  says  to  myself, 
s'l,  'Ef  I'm  wuth  havin',  I'm  wuth  scramblin'  atter;' 
an'  ef  your  pappy  hadn't  'a'  scrambled  an'  scuffled 
'roun'  he  wouldn't  'a'  got  me  nuther,  ef  I  do  up  an' 
say  it  myself.  I'd  a  heap  druther  see  you  fillin'  them 
slays  an'  a-fixin'  up  for  to  weave  your  pappy  some 


130  Trouble  on  Lost  Mountain. 

shirts,  than  to  see  you  a-whinin'  'roun'  atter  any  chap 
on  the  top  side  er  the  yeth,  let  'lone  Tuck  Peevy." 

There  was  little  consolation  even  in  this,  but  Babe 
went  about  her  simple  duties  with  some  show  of 
spirit ;  and  when  her  father  and  Chichester  returned 
from  their  trip  on  Sweetwater,  it  would  have  re- 
quired a  sharp  eye  to  discover  that  Babe  regarded 
herself  as  "wearing  the  green  willow." 

For  a  few  days  she  avoided  Chichester,  as  if  by 
that  means  to  prove  her  loyalty  to  Peevy ;  but  as 
Peevy  was  not  present  to  approve  her  conduct  or  to 
take  advantage  of  it,  she  soon  grew  tired  of  playing 
an  unnecessary  part.  Peevy  persisted  in  staying 
away;  and  the  result  was,  that  Babe's  anger — a 
healthy  quality  in  a  young  girl  — got  the  better  of  her 
grief.  Then  wonder  took  the  place  of  anger ;  but 
behind  it  all  was  the  hope  that  before  many  days 
I  Peevy  would  saunter  into  the  house,  armed  with  his 
inscrutable  smile,  and  inquire,  as  he  had  done  a  hun- 
dred times  before,  how  long  before  dinner  would  be 
ready.  This  theory  was  held  by  Grandsir  Hightower, 
but,  as  it  was  a  very  plausible  one,  Babe  adopted  it 
as  her  own. 

y  Meanwhile,  it  is  not  to  be  supposed  that  two 
lovers,  one  sulking  and  the  other  sighing,  had  any 
influence  on  the  season.  The  spring  had  made  some 
delay  in  the  valley  before  taking  complete  possession 
of  the  mountain,  but  this  delay  was  not  significant. 
Even  on  the  mountain,  the  days  began  to  suggest 


Trouble  on  Lost  Mountain.  131 

the  ardor  of  summer.  The  air  was  alternately  warm 
and  hazy,  and  crisp  and  clear.  One  day  Kenesaw 
would  cast  aside  its  atmospheric  trappings,  and 
appear  to  lie  within  speaking  distance  of  High- 
tower's  door  ;  the  next,  it  would  withdraw  behind 
its  blue  veil,  and  seem  far  enough  away  to  belong  to 
another  world.  On  Hightower's  farm  the  corn  was 
high  enough  to  whet  its  green  sabres  against  the  wind. 

One  evening  Chichester,  HigMtower,  and  Babe  sat 
on  the  little  porch  with  their  faces  turned  toward 
Kenesaw.  They  had  been  watching  a  line  of  blue 
smoke  on  the  mountain  in  the  distance ;  and,  as  the 
twilight  deepened  into  dusk,  they  saw  that  the  sum- 
mit of  Kenesaw  was  crowned  by  a  thin  fringe  of  fire. 
As  the  darkness  gathered,  the  bright  belt  of  flame 
projected  against  the  vast  expanse  of  night  seemed 
to  belong  to  the  vision  of  St.  John. 

"  It  looks  like  a  picture  out  of  the  Bible,"  sug- 
gested Chichester  somewhat  vaguely. 

"It's  wuss'n  that,  I  reckon,"  said  Abe.  "Some 
un's  a-losin'  a  mighty  sight  of  fencin'  ;  an'  timber's 
timber  these  days,  lemme  tell  you." 

"  Maybe  some  un's  a-burnin'  bresh,"  said  Babe. 

"  Bless  you !  they  don't  pile  bresh  in  a  streak  a 
mile  long,"  said  Abe. 

The  thin  line  of  fire  crept  along  slowly,  and  the 
people  on  the  little  porch  sat  and  watched  it.  Occa- 
sionally it  would  crawl  up  to  the  top  of  a  dead  pine, 
and  leave  a  fiery  signal  flaming  in  the  air. 


132  Trouble  on  Lost  Mountain. 

"What  is  the  matter  with  Peevy  ? "  asked  Chiches- 
ter after  a  while.  "  I  met  him  on  the  mountain  the 
other  day,  and  he  seemed  not  to  know  me." 

"He  don't  know  anybody  aroun'  here,"  said  Babe 
with  a  sigh. 

"  Hit's  thes  some  er  his  an'  Babe's  capers," 
Hightower  remarked  with  a  laugh.  "They  er  bin 
a-cuttin'  up  this  away  now  gwine  on  two  year'.  I 
reckon  ag'in'  camp-meetin'  time  Tuck'll  drap  in  an' 
make  hisself  know'd.  Gals  and  boys  is  mighty 
funny  wi'  the'r  gwines-on." 

After  a  little,  Abe  went  into  the  house,  and  left 
the  young  people  to  watch  the  fiery  procession  on 
Kenesaw. 

"The  next  time  I  see  Peevy,"  said  Chichester 
gallantly,  "  I'll  take  him  by  the  sleeve,  and  show  him 
the  road  to  Beauty's  bower." 

"  Well,  you  nee'nter  pester  wi'  'im  on  account  of 
me,"  said  Babe.  Chichester  laughed.  The  fact  that 
so  handsome  a  girl  as  Babe  should  deliberately  fall 
in  love  with  so  lank  and  ungainly  a  person  as  Tuck 
Peevy,  seemed  to  him  to  be  one  of  the  problems 
that  philosophers  ought  to  concern  themselves  with ; 
but,  from  his  point  of  view,  the  fact  that  Babe  had 
not  gradually  faded  away,  according  to  the  approved 
rules  of  romance,  was  entirely  creditable  to  human 
nature  on  the  mountain. 

A  candle,  burning  in  the  room  that  Chichester 
occupied,  shone  through  the  window  faintly,  and  fell 


Trouble  on  Lost  Mountain.  133 

on  Babe,  while  Chichester  sat  in  the  shadow.  As 
they  were  talking,  a  mocking-bird  in  the  apple-trees 
awoke,  and  poured  into  the  ear  of  night  a  flood 
of  delicious  melody.  Hearing  this,  Babe  seized 
Chichester's  hat,  and  placed  it  on  her  head. 

"There  must  be  some  omen  in  that,"  said  Chi- 
chester. 

"  They  say,"  said  Babe,  laughing  merrily,  "  that  ef 
a  gal  puts  on  a  man's  hat  when  she  hears  a  mocker 
sing  at  night,  she'll  git  married  that  year  an'  do 
well." 

"  Well,  I'm  sorry  I  haven't  got  a  bonnet  to  put 
on,"  exclaimed  Chichester. 

"  Oh,  it  don't  work  that  away ! "  cried  Babe. 

The  mocking-bird  continued  to  sing,  and  finally 
brought  its  concert  to  a  close  by  giving  a  most  mar- 
vellous imitation  of  the  liquid,  silvery  chimes  of  the 
wood-thrush. 

There  was  a  silence  for  one  brief  moment.  Then 
there  was  a  red  flash  under  the  apple-trees,  followed 
by  the  sharp  crack  of  a  rifle.  There  was  another 
brief  moment  of  silence,  and  then  the  young  girl 
sighed  softly,  leaned  forward,  and  fell  from  her  chair. 

"What's  this  ? "  cried  Abe,  coming  to  the  door. 

"  The  Lord  only  knows  ! "  exclaimed  Chichester. 
"  Look  at  your  daughter  !  " 

Abe  stepped  forward,  and  touched  the  girl  on  the 
shoulder.  Then  he  shook  her  gently,  as  he  had 
done  a  thousand  times  when  rousing  her  from  sleep. 


134  Trouble  on  Lost  Mountain. 

"Babe!  git  up!  Git  up,  honey,  an'  go  in  the 
house.  You  ought  to  'a'  been  abed  long  ago.  Git 
up,  honey." 

Chichester  stood  like  one  paralyzed.  For  the 
moment  he  was  incapable  of  either  speech  or  action. 

"  I  know  what  she's  atter,"  said  Abe  tenderly. 
"  You  wouldn't  believe  it  skacely,  but  this  yer  great 
big  chunk  of  a  gal  wants  her^oie  pappy  to  pick  her 
up  an'  tote  her  thes  like  he  useter  when  she  was 
er  little  bit  of  a  scrap." 

"  I  think  she  has  been  shot,"  said  Chichester. 
To  his  own  ears  his  voice  seemed  to  be  the  voice  of 
some  other  man. 

"Shot!"  exclaimed  Abe.  "Why,  who's  a-gwine 
to  shoot  Babe  ?  Lord,  Cap'n  !  you  dunner  nothin' 
'tall  'bout  Babe  ef  you  talk  that  away.  —  Come  on, 
honey."  With  that  Abe  lifted  his  child  in  his  arms, 
and  carried  her  into  the  house.  Chichester  followed. 
All  his  faculties  were  benumbed,  and  he  seemed  to 
be  walking  in  a  dream.  It  seemed  that  no  such 
horrible  confusion  as  that  by  which  he  was  sur- 
rounded could  have  the  remotest  relation  to  reality. 

Nevertheless,  it  did  not  add  to  his  surprise  and 
consternation  to  find,  when  Abe  had  placed  the  girl 
on  her  bed,  that  she  was  dead.  A  little  red  spot  on 
her  forehead,  half-hidden  by  the  glossy  curling  hair, 
showed  that  whoever  held  the  rifle  aimed  it  well. 

"Why,  honey,"  said  Abe,  wiping  away  the  slight 
blood-stain    that    showed   itself,    "  you    struck   your 


Trouble  on  Lost  Mountain.  135 

head  ag'in'  a  nail.  Git  up !  you  oughtn't  to  be 
a-gwine  on  this  away  before  comp'ny." 

"  I  tell  you  she  is  dead  !  "  cried  Chichester.  "  She 
has  been  murdered  !  " 

The  girl's  mother  had  already  realized  this  fact, 
and  her  tearless  grief  was  something  pitiful  to  be- 
hold. The  gray-haired  grandfather  had  also  realized 
it. 

"  I'd  druther  see  her  a-lyin'  thar  dead,"  he 
exclaimed,  raising  his  weak  and  trembling  hands 
heavenward,  "than  to  see  her  Tuck  Peevy's  wife." 

"  Why,  gentermen  ! "  exclaimed  Abe,  "  how  kin 
she  be  dead  ?  I  oughter  know  my  own  gal,  I 
reckon.  Many's  an'  many's  the  time  she's  worried 
me,  a-playin'  'possum,  an'  many's  an'  many's  the 
time  has  I  sot  by  her  waitin'  tell  she  let  on  to  wake 
up.  Don't  you  all  pester  wi'  her.  She'll  wake  up 
therreckly." 

At  this  juncture  Tuck  Peevy  walked  into  the 
room.  There  was  a  strange  glitter  in  his  eyes,  a 
new  energy  in  his  movements.  Chichester  sprang 
at  him,  seized  him  by  the  throat,  and  dragged  him 
to  the  bedside. 

"  You  cowardly,  skulking  murderer !  "  he  ex- 
claimed, "  see  what  you  have  done  ! " 

Peevy's  sallow  face  grew  ashen.  He  seemed  to 
shrink  and  collapse  under  Chichester's  hand.  His 
breath  came  thick  and  short.  His  long,  bony  fingers 
clutched  nervously  at  his  clothes. 


136  Trouble  on  Lost  Mountain. 

"  I  aimed  at  the  hat ! "  he  exclaimed  huskily. 

He  would  have  leaned  over  the  girl,  but  Chichester 
flung  him  away  from  the  bedside,  and  he  sank  down 
in  a  corner,  moaning  and  shaking.  Abe  took  no 
notice  of  Peevy's  entrance,  and  paid  no  attention 
to  the  crouching  figure  mumbling  in  the  corner, 
except,  perhaps,  so  far  as  he  seemed  to  recognize 
in  Chichester's  attack  on  Peevy  a  somewhat  vigorous 
protest  against  his  own  theory ;  for,  when  there  was 
comparative  quiet  in  the  room,  Hightower  raised 
himself,  and  exclaimed,  in  a  tone  that  showed  both 
impatience  and  excitement,  — 

"Why,  great  God  A'mighty,  gentermen,  don't  go 
on  that  away  !  They  hain't  no  harm  done.  Thes 
let  us  alone.  Me  an'  Babe's  all  right.  She's  bin 
a-playin'  this  away  ev'ry  sence  she  wuz  a  little  bit 
of  a  gal.  Don't  less  make  her  mad,  gentermen, 
bekaze  ef  we  do  she'll  take  plum  tell  day  atter 
to-morrer  for  to  come  'roun'  right." 

Looking  closely  at  Hightower,  Chichester  could 
see  that  his  face  was  colorless.  His  eyes  were 
sunken,  but  shone  with  a  peculiar  brilliancy,  and 
great  beads  of  perspiration  stood  on  his  forehead, 
His  whole  appearance  was  that  of  a  man  distraught, 
Here  was  another  tragedy  ! 

Seeking  a  momentary  escape  from  the  confusion 
and  perplexity  into  which  he  had  been  plunged  by 
the  horrible  events  of  the  night,  Chichester  passed 
out  into  the  yard,  and  stood  bareheaded  in  the  cool 


Trouble  on  Lost  Mountain.  137 

wind  that  was  faintly  stirring  among  the  trees.  The 
stars  shone  remote  and  tranquil,  and  the  serenity  of 
the  mountain,  the  awful  silence  that  seemed  to  be, 
not  the  absence  of  sound,  but  the  presence  of  some 
spiritual  entity,  gave  assurance  of  peace.  Out  there, 
in  the  cold  air,  or  in  the  wide  skies,  or  in  the  vast 
gulf  of  night,  there  was  nothing  to  suggest  either 
pity  or  compassion,  —  only  the  mysterious  tranquil- 
lity of  nature. 

This  was  the  end,  so  far  as  Chichester  knew.  He 
never  entered  the  Hightower  house  again.  Some- 
thing prompted  him  to  saddle  his  horse  and  ride 
down  the  mountain.  The  tragedy  and  its  attendant 
troubles  were  never  reported  in  the  newspapers. 
The  peace  of  the  mountain  remained  undisturbed, 
its  silence  unbroken. 

But  should  Chichester,  who  at  last  accounts  was 
surveying  a  line  of  railway  in  Mexico,  ever  return  to 
Lost  Mountain,  he  would  find  Tuck  Peevy  a  gaunt 
and  shrunken  creature,  working  on  the  Hightower 
farm,  and  managing  such  of  its  small  affairs  as  call 
for  management.  Sometimes,  when  the  day's  work 
is  over,  and  Peevy  sits  at  the  fireside  saying  nothing, 
Abe  Hightower  will  raise  a  paralytic  hand,  and  cry 
out  as  loud  as  he  can  that  it's  almost  time  for  Babe 
to  quit  playing  'possum.  At  such  times  we  may  be 
sure  that,  so  far  as  Peevy  is  concerned,  there  is  still 
trouble  on  Lost  Mountain. 


j^yX^K^-^^- 


M 


AZALIA. 
i. 

ISS  HELEN  OSBORNE  EUSTIS  of  Boston 
was  very  much  astonished  one  day  in  the  early 
fall  of  1873  to  receive  a  professional  visit  from  Dr. 
Ephraim  Buxton,  who  for  many  years  had  been  her 
father's  family  physician.  The  astonishment  was 
mutual ;  for  Dr.  Buxton  had  expected  to  find  Miss 
Eustis  in  bed,  or  at  least  in  the  attitude  of  a  patient, 
whereas  she  was  seated  in  an  easy-chair,  before  a 
glowing  grate,  —  which  the  peculiarities  of  the  Bos- 
ton climate  sometimes  render  necessary,  even  in  the 
early  fall,  —  and  appeared  to  be  about  as  comfortable 
as  a  human  being  could  well  be.  Perhaps  the  ap- 
pearance of  comfort  was  heightened  by  the  general 
air  of  subdued  luxury  that  pervaded  the  apartment 
into  which  Dr.  Buxton  had  been  ushered.  The 
draperies,  the  arrangement  of  the  little  affairs  that 
answer  to  the  name  of  bric-a-brac,  the  adjustment  of 
the  furniture  —  every  thing  —  conveyed  the  impres- 
sion of  peace  and  repose  ;  and  the  chief  element  of 
this  perfect  harmony  was  Miss  Eustis  herself,  who 
rose  to  greet  the  doctor  as  he  entered.  She  re- 
138 


Azalia.  139 

garded  the  physician  with  eyes  that  somehow  seemed 
to  be  wise  and  kind,  and  with  a  smile  that  was  at 
once  sincere  and  humorous. 

"Why,  how  is  this,  Helen?"  Dr.  Buxton  exclaimed, 
taking  off  his  spectacles,  and  staring  at  the  young 
lady.  "  I  fully  expected  to  find  you  in  bed.  I  hope 
you  are  not  imprudent." 

"Why  should  I  be  ill,  Dr.  Buxton?  You  know 
what  Mr.  Tom  Appleton  says  :  '  In  Boston,  those  who 
are  sick  do  injustice  to  the  air  they  breathe  and  to 
their  cooks.'  I  think  that  is  a  patriotic  sentiment, 
and  I  try  to  live  up  to  it.  My  health  is  no  worse 
than  usual,  and  usually  it  is  very  good,"  said  Miss 
Eustis. 

"  You  certainly  seem  to  be  well,"  said  Dr.  Buxton, 
regarding  the  young  lady  with  a  professional  frown  ; 
"but  appearances  are  sometimes  deceitful.  I  met 
Harriet  yesterday  "  — 

"Ah,  my  aunt!"  exclaimed  Helen,  in  a  tone  cal- 
culated to  imply  that  this  explained  every  thing. 

"  I  met  Harriet  yesterday,  and  she  insisted  on  my 
coming  to  see  you  at  once,  certainly  not  later  than 
to-day." 

Miss  Eustis  shrugged  her  shoulders,  and  laughed, 
but  her  face  showed  that  she  appreciated  this  mani- 
festation of  solicitude. 

"Let  me  see,"  she  said  reflectively;  "what  was 
my  complaint  yesterday  ?  We  must  do  justice  to 
Aunt    Harriet's    discrimination.     She    would   never 


1 40  Azalia. 

forgive  you  if  you  went  away  without  leaving  a 
prescription.  My  health  is  so  good  that  I  think 
you  may  leave  me  a  mild  one." 

Unconsciously  the  young  lady  made  a  charming 
picture  as  she  sat  with  her  head  drooping  a  little 
to  one  side  in  a  half-serious,  half-smiling  effort  to 
recall  to  mind  some  of  the  symptoms  that  had  excited 
her  aunt's  alarm.  Dr.  Buxton,  prescription-book  in 
hand,  gazed  at  her  quizzically  over  his  old-fashioned 
spectacles ;  seeing  which,  Helen  laughed  heartily. 
At  that  moment  her  aunt  entered  the  room,  —  a 
pleasant-faced  but  rather  prim  old  lady,  of  whom  it 
had  been  said  by  some  one  competent  to  judge, 
that  her  inquisitiveness  was  so  overwhelming  and 
so  important  that  it  took  the  shape  of  pity  in  one 
direction,  patriotism  in  another,  and  benevolence  in 
another,  giving  to  her  life  not  the  mere  semblance 
but  the  very  essence  of  usefulness  and  activity. 

"  Do  you  hear  that,  Dr.  Buxton  ?  "  cried  the 
pleasant -faced  old  lady  somewhat  sharply.  "Do 
you  hear  her  wheeze  when  she  laughs  ?  Do  you 
remember  that  she  was  threatened  with  pneumonia 
last  winter  ?  and  now  she  is  wheezing  before  the 
winter  begins  !  " 

"  This  is  the  trouble  I  was  trying  to  think  of," 
exclaimed  Helen,  sinking  back  in  her  chair  with  a 
gesture  of  mock  despair. 

"  Don't  make  yourself  ridiculous,  dear,"  said  the 
aunt,  giving   the   little  clusters  of   gray  curls   that 


Azalia.  141 

hung  about  her  ears  an  emphatic  shake.  "  Serious 
matters  should  be  taken  seriously."  Whereat  Helen 
pressed  her  cheek  gently  against  the  thin  white  hand 
that  had  been  laid  caressingly  on  her  shoulder. 

"  Aunt  Harriet  has  probably  heard  me  say  that  there 
is  still  some  hope  for  the  country,  even  though  it  is 
governed  entirely  by  men,"  said  Helen,  with  an  air  of 
apology.  "  The  men  cannot  deprive  us  of  the  winter 
climate  of  Boston,  and  I  enjoy  that  above  all  things." 

Aunt  Harriet  smiled  reproachfully  at  her  niece, 
and  pulled  her  ear  gently. 

"But  indeed,  Dr.  Buxton,"  Helen  went  on  more 
seriously,  "the  winter  climate  of  Boston,  fine  as  it  is, 
is  beginning  to  pinch  us  harder  than  it  used  to  do. 
The  air  is  thinner,  and  the  cold  is  keener.  When  I 
was  younger  —  very  much  younger  —  than  I  am  now, 
I  remember  that  I  used  to  run  in  and  out,  and  fall 
and  roll  in  the  snow  with  perfect  impunity.  But  now 
I  try  to  profit  by  Aunt  Harriet's  example.  When  I 
go  out,  I  go  bundled  up  to  the  point  of  suffocation ; 
and  if  the  wind  is  from  the  east,  as  it  usually  is,  I 
wear  wraps  and  shawls  indoors." 

Helen  smiled  brightly  at  her  aunt  and  at  Dr. 
Buxton  ;  but  her  aunt  seemed  to  be  distressed,  and 
the  physician  shook  his  head  dubiously. 

"You  will  have  to  take  great  care  of  yourself," 
said  Dr.  Buxton.  "  You  must  be  prudent.  The 
slightest  change  in  the  temperature  may  send  you 
to  bed  for  the  rest  of  the  winter." 


142  Azalia. 

"Dr.  Buxton  is  complimenting  you,  Aunt  Harriet," 
said  Helen.     "  You  should  drop  him  a  courtesy." 

Whereupon  the  amiable  physician,  seeing  that 
there  was  no  remedy  for  the  humorous  view  which 
Miss  Eustis  took  of  her  condition,  went  further,  and 
informed  her  that  there  was  every  reason  why  she 
should  be  serious.  He  told  her,  with  some  degree 
of  bluntness,  that  her  symptoms,  while  not  alarming, 
were  not  at  all  re-assuring. 

"It  is  always  the  way,  Dr.  Buxton,"  said  Helen, 
smiling  tenderly  at  her  aunt ;  "  I  believe  you  would 
confess  to  serious  symptoms  yourself  if  Aunt  Har- 
riet insisted  on  it.  What  an  extraordinary  politician 
she  would  make !  My  sympathy  with  the  woman- 
suffrage  movement  is  in  the  nature  of  an  investment. 
When  we  women  succeed  to  the  control  of  affairs,  I 
count  on  achieving  distinction  as  Aunt  Harriet's 
niece." 

Laughing,  she  seized  her  aunt's  hand.  Dr.  Buxton, 
watching  her,  laughed  too,  and  then  proceeded  to 
write  out  a  prescription.  He  seemed  to  hesitate  a 
little  over  this  ;  seeing  which,  Helen  remonstrated,  — 

"  Pray  Dr.  Buxton,  don't  humor  Aunt  Harriet  too 
much  in  this.  Save  your  physic  for  those  who  are 
strong  in  body  and  mind.  A  dozen  of  your  pellets 
ought  to  be  a  year's  supply."  The  physician  wrote 
out  his  prescription,  and  took  his  leave,  laughing 
heartily  at  the  amiable  confusion  in  which  Helen's 
drollery  had  left  her  aunt. 


Azalia.  143 

It  is  not  to  be  supposed,  however,  that  Miss  Eustis 
was  simply  droll.  She  was  unconventional  at  all 
times,  and  sometimes  wilful, — inheriting  that  native 
strength  of  mind  and  mother-wit  which  are  generally 
admitted  to  be  a  part  of  the  equipment  of  the  typical 
American  woman.  If  she  was  not  the  ideal  young 
woman,  at  least  she  possessed  some  of  the  attractive 
qualities  that  one  tries  —  sometimes  unsuccessfully  — 
to  discover  in  one's  dearest  friends.  From  her  in- 
fancy, until  near  the  close  of  the  war,  she  had  had 
the  advantage  of  her  father's  companionship,  so  that 
her  ideas  were  womanly  rather  than  merely  feminine. 
She  had  never  been  permitted  to  regard  the  world 
from  the  dormer-windows  of  a  young  ladies'  seminary, 
in  consequence  of  which  her  views  of  life  in  general, 
and  of  mankind  in  particular,  were  orderly  and 
rational.  Such  indulgence  as  her  father  had  given 
her  had  served  to  strengthen  her  individuality  rather 
than  to  confirm  her  temper ;  and,  though  she  had  a 
strong  and  stubborn  will  of  her  own,  her  tact  was 
such  that  her  wilfulness  appeared  to  be  the  most 
natural  as  well  as  the  most  charming  thing  in  the 
world.  Moreover,  she  possessed  in  a  remarkable 
degree  that  buoyancy  of  mind  that  is  more  engaging 
than  mere  geniality. 

Her  father  was  no  less  a  person  than  Charles 
Osborne  Eustis,  the  noted  philanthropist  and  aboli- 
tionist, whose  death  in  1867  was  the  occasion  of 
quite   a    controversy  in    New   England,  —  a   contro- 


144  Azalia. 

versy  based  on  the  fact  that  he  had  opposed  some 
of  the  most  virulent  schemes  of  his  co-workers  at  a 
time  when  abolitionism  had  not  yet  gathered  its  full 
strength.  Mr.  Eustis,  in  his  day,  was  in  the  habit 
of  boasting  that  his  daughter  had  a  great  deal  of 
genuine  American  spirit,  —  the  spirit  that  one  set 
of  circumstances  drives  to  provinciality,  another  to 
patriotism,  and  another  to  originality. 

Helen  had  spent  two  long  winters  in  Europe 
without  parting  with  the  fine  flavor  of  her  origin- 
ality. She  was  exceedingly  modest  in  her  designs, 
too,  for  she  went  neither  as  a  missionary  nor  as  a 
repentant.  She  found  no  foreign  social  shrines  that 
she  thought  worthy  of  worshipping  at.  She  admired 
what  was  genuine,  and  tolerated  such  shams  as  ob- 
truded themselves  on  her  attention.  Her  father's 
connections  had  enabled  her  to  see  something  of  the 
real  home-life  of  England  ;  and  she  was  delighted, 
but  not  greatly  surprised,  to  find  that  at  its  best  it 
was  not  greatly  different  from  the  home-life  to  which 
she  had  been  accustomed. 

The  discovery  delighted  her  because  it  confirmed 
her  own  broad  views  ;  but  she  no  more  thought  it 
necessary  to  set  about  aping  the  social  peculiarities 
to  be  found  in  London  drawing-rooms  than  she 
thought  of  denying  her  name  or  her  nativity.  She 
made  many  interesting  studies  and  comparisons,  but 
she  was  not  disposed  to  be  critical.  She  admired 
many  things  in  Europe  which  she  would  not  have 


Azalia.  145 

considered  admirable  in  America,  and  whatever  she 
found  displeasing  she  tolerated  as  the  natural  out- 
come of  social  or  climatic  conditions.  Certainly  the 
idea  never  occurred  to  her  that  her  own  country  was 
a  barren  waste  because  time  had  not  set  the  seal  of 
antiquity  on  its  institutions.  On  the  other  hand, 
this  admirable  young  woman  was  quick  to  perceive 
that  much  information  as  well  as  satisfaction  was  to 
be  obtained  by  regarding  various  European  peculiari- 
ties from  a  strictly  European  point  of  view. 

But  Miss  Eustis's  reminiscences  of  the  Old  World 
were  sad  as  well  as  pleasant.  Her  journey  thither 
had  been  undertaken  in  the  hope  of  restoring  her 
father's  failing  health,  and  her  stay  there  had  been 
prolonged  for  the  same  purpose.  For  a  time  he 
grew  stronger  and  better,  but  the  improvement  was 
only  temporary.  He  came  home  to  die,  and  to 
Helen  this  result  seemed  to  be  the  end  of  all  things. 
She  had  devoted  herself  to  looking  after  his  com- 
fort with  a  zeal  and  an  intelligence  that  left  nothing 
undone.  This  had  been  her  micsion  in  life.  Her 
mother  had  died  when  Helen  was  a  little  child, 
leaving  herself  and  her  brother,  who  was  some  years 
older,  to  the  care  of  the  father.  Helen  remembered 
her  mother  only  as  a  pale,  beautiful  lady  in  a  trailing 
robe,  who  fell  asleep  one  day,  and  was  mysteriously 
carried  away,  — the  lady  of  a  dream. 

The  boy  —  the  brother —  rode  forth  to  the  war  in 
1862,  and  never  rode  back  any  more.     To  the  father 


146  Azalia. 

and  sister  waiting  at  home,  it  seemed  as  if  he  had 
been  seized  and  swept  from  the  earth  on  the  bosom 
of  the  storm  that  broke  over  the  country  in  that 
period  of  dire  confusion.  Even  Rumor,  with  her 
thousand  tongues,  had  little  to  say  of  the  fate  of 
this  poor  youth.  It  was  known  that  he  led  a  squad 
of  troopers  detailed  for  special  service,  and  that  his 
command,  with  small  knowledge  of  the  country,  fell 
into  an  ambush  from  which  not  more  than  two  or 
three  extricated  themselves.  Beyond  this  all  was 
mystery,  for  those  who  survived  that  desperate  skir- 
mish could  say  nothing  of  the  fate  of  their  compan- 
ions. The  loss  of  his  son  gave  Mr.  Eustis  additional 
interest  in  his  daughter,  if  that  were  possible ;  and 
the  common  sorrow  of  the  two  so  strengthened  and 
sweetened  their  lives,  that  their  affection  for  each 
other  was  in  the  nature  of  a  perpetual  memorial  of 
the  pale  lady  who  had  passed  away,  and  of  the  boy 
who  had  perished  in  Virginia. 

When  Helen's  father  died,  in  1867,  her  mother's 
sister,  Miss  Harriet  Tewksbury,  a  spinster  of  fifty 
or  thereabouts,  who,  for  the  lack  of  something  sub- 
stantial to  interest  her,  had  been  halting  between 
woman's,  rights  and  Spiritualism,  suddenly  discovered 
that  Helen's  cause  was  the  real  woman's  cause ; 
whereupon  she  went  to  the  lonely  and  grief-stricken 
girl,  and  with  that  fine  efficiency  which  the  New- 
England  woman  acquires  from  the  air,  and  inherits 
from  history,  proceeded  to  minister  to  her  comfort. 


Azalia.  147 

Miss  Tewksbury  was  not  at  all  vexed  to  find  her 
niece  capable  of  taking  care  of  herself.  She  did  not 
allow  that  fact  to  prevent  her  from  assuming  a  moth- 
erly control  that  was  most  gracious  in  its  manifesta- 
tions, and  peculiarly  gratifying  to  Helen,  who  found 
great  consolation  in  the  ail-but  masculine  energy  of 
her  aunt. 

A  day  or  two  after  Dr.  Buxton's  visit,  the  result  of 
which  has  already  been  chronicled,  Miss  Tewksbury's 
keen  eye  detected  an  increase  of  the  symptoms  that 
had  given  her  anxiety,  and  their  development  was  of 
such  a  character  that  Helen  made  no  objection  when 
her  aunt  proposed  to  call  in  the  physician  again. 
Dr.  Buxton  came,  and  agreed  with  Miss  Tewksbury 
as  to  the  gravity  of  the  symptoms ;  but  his  prescrip- 
tion was  oral. 

"You  must  keep  Helen  indoors  until  she  is  a  little 
stronger,"  he  said  to  Miss  Tewksbury,  "and  then 
take  her  to  a  milder  climate." 

"Oh,  not  to  Florida!"  exclaimed  Helen  promptly. 

"  Not  necessarily,"  said  the  doctor. 

"  Please  don't  twist  your  language,  Dr.  Buxton. 
You  should  say  necessarily  not." 

"And  why  not  to  Florida,  young  lady?"  the 
doctor  inquired. 

"Ah,  I  have  seen  people  that  came  from  there," 
said  Helen  :  "  they  were  too  tired  to  talk  much  about 
the  country,  but  something  in  their  attitude  and  ap- 
pearance seemed  to  suggest  that  they  had  seen  the 


148  Azalia. 

sea-serpent.  Dear  doctor,  I  have  no  desire  to  sec 
the  sea-serpent." 

"Well,  then,  my  dear  child,"  said  Dr.  Buxton 
soothingly,  "  not  to  Florida,  but  to  nature's  own 
sanitarium,  the  pine  woods  of  Georgia.  Yes,"  the 
doctor  went  on,  smiling  as  he  rubbed  the  glasses  of 
his  spectacles  with  his  silk  handkerchief,  "  nature's 
own  sanitarium.  I  tested  the  piney  woods  of  Georgia 
thoroughly  years  ago.  I  drifted  there  in  my  young 
days.  I  lived  there,  and  taught  school  there.  I  grew 
strong  there,  and  I  have  always  wanted  to  go  back 
there." 

"  And  now,"  said  Helen,  with  a  charmingly  demure 
glance  at  the  enthusiastic  physician,  "you  want  to 
send  Aunt  Harriet  and  poor  Me  forward  as  a  skir- 
mish-line. There  is  no  antidote  in  your  books  for 
the  Ku  Klux." 

"You  will  see  new  scenes  and  new  people,"  said 
Dr.  Buxton,  laughing.  "You  will  get  new  ideas; 
above  all,  you  will  breathe  the  fresh  air  of  heaven 
spiced  with  the  odor  of  pines.  It  will  be  the  making 
of  you,  my  dear  child." 

Helen  made  various  protests,  some  of  them  serious 
and  some  droll,  but  the  matter  was  practically  set- 
tled when  it  became  evident  that  Dr.  Buxton  was 
not  only  earnestly  but  enthusiastically  in  favor  of 
the  journey ;  and  Helen's  aunt  at  once  began  to 
make  preparations.  To  some  of  their  friends  it 
seemed  a  serious  undertaking  indeed.      The  news- 


Azalia.  149 

papers  of  that  day  were  full  of  accounts  of  Ku-Klux 
outrages,  and  of  equally  terrible  reports  of  the  social 
disorganization  of  the  South.  It  seemed  at  that  time 
as  though  the  politicians  and  the  editors,  both  great 
and  small,  and  of  every  shade  of  belief,  had  deter- 
mined to  fight  the  war  over  again,  —  instituting  a 
conflict  which,  though  bloodless  enough  so  far  as 
the  disputants  were  concerned,  was  not  without  its 
unhappy  results. 

Moreover,  Helen's  father  had  been  noted  among 
those  who  had  early  engaged  in  the  crusade  against 
slavery ;  and  it  was  freely  predicted  by  her  friends 
that  the  lawlessness  which  was  supposed  to  exist 
in  every  part  of  the  collapsed  Confederacy  would 
be  prompt  to  select  the  representatives  of  Charles 
Osborne  Eustis  as  its  victims.  Miss  Tewksbury 
affected  to  smile  at  the  apprehensions  of  her  friends, 
but  her  preparations  were  not  undertaken  without  a 
secret  dread  of  the  responsibilities  she  was  assuming. 
Helen,  however,  was  disposed  to  treat  the  matter 
humorously. 

"Dr.  Buxton  is  a  lifelong  Democrat,"  she  said; 
"  consequently  he  must  know  all  about  it.  Father 
used  to  tell  him  he  liked  his  medicine  better  than 
his  politics,  bitter  as  some  of  it  was ;  but  in  a  case 
of  this  kind,  Dr.  Buxton's  politics  have  a  distinct 
value.  He  will  give  us  the  grips,  the  signs,  and  the 
pass-words,  dear  aunt,  and  I  dare  say  we  shall  get 
along  comfortably." 


150  Azalia. 


II. 


They  did  get  along  comfortably.  Peace  seemed 
to  spread  her  meshes  before  them.  They  journeyed 
by  easy  stages,  stopping  a  while  in  Philadephia,  in 
Baltimore,  and  in  Washington.  They  staid  a  week 
in  Richmond.  From  Richmond  they  were  to  go  to 
Atlanta,  and  from  Atlanta  to  Azalia,  the  little  piney- 
woocls  village  which  Dr.  Buxton  had  recommended 
as  a  sanitarium.  At  a  point  south  of  Richmond, 
where,  they  stopped  for  breakfast,  Miss  Eustis  and 
her  aunt  witnessed  a  little  scene  that  seemed  to 
them  to  be  very  interesting.  A  gentleman  wrapped 
in  a  long  linen  travelling-coat  was  pacing  restlessly 
up  and  down  the  platform  of  the  little  station.  He 
was  tall,  and  his  bearing  was  distinctly  military. 
The  neighborhood  people  who  were  lounging  around 
the  station  watched  him  with  interest.  After  a 
while  a  negro  boy  came  running  up  with  a  valise 
which  he  had  evidently  brought  some  distance.  He 
placed  it  in  front  of  the  tall  gentleman,  crying  out 
in  a  loud  voice,  "  Here  she  is,  Marse  Peyton,"  then 
stepped  to  one  side,  and  began  to  fan  himself  vigor- 
ously with  the  fragment  of  a  wool  hat.  He  grinned 
broadly  in  response  to  something  the  tall  gentleman 
said ;  but,  before  he  could  make  a  suitable  reply,  a 
negro  woman,  fat  and  motherly-looking,  made  her 
appearance,  puffing  and  blowing  and  talking. 


Azalia.  1 5 1 

"  I  declar'  ter  gracious,  Marse  Peyton  !  seem  like 
I  wa'n't  never  gwine  ter  git  yer.  I  helt  up  my 
head,  I  did,  fer  ter  keep  my  eye  on  de  kyars,  en  it 
look  like  I  run  inter  all  de  gullies  en  on  top  er  all 
de  stumps  'twix'  dis  en  Marse  Tip's.  I  des  tuk'n 
drapt  eve'y  thing,  I  did,  en  tole  um  dey'd  hatter 
keep  one  eye  on  de  dinner-pot,  kase  I  'blige  ter  run 
en  see  Marse  Peyton  off." 

The  gentleman  laughed  as  the  motherly-looking 
old  negro  wiped  her  face  with  her  apron.  Her  sleeves 
were  rolled  up,  and  her  fat  arms  glistened  in  the  sun. 

"  I  boun'  you  some  er  deze  yer  folks  '11  go  off  en 
say  I'm  'stracted,"  she  cried,  "but  I  can't  he'p  dat ; 
I  bleeze  ter  run  down  yer  ter  tell  Marse  Peyton  good- 
by.  Tell  um  all  howdy  fer  me,  Marse  Peyton,"  she 
cried,  "all  un  um.  No  diffunce  ef  I  ain't  know  um 
all  —  'tain't  gwine  ter  do  no  harm  fer  ter  tell  um  dat 
ole  Jincy  say  howdy.  Hit  make  me  feel  right  foolish 
in  de  head  w'en  it  come  'cross  me  dat  I  use  ter  tote 
Miss  Hallie  'roun'  w'en  she  wuz  a  little  bit  er  baby, 
en  now  she  way  down  dar  out'n  de  worl'  mos'.  I 
wish  ter  de  Lord  I  uz  gwine  'long  wid  you,  Marse 
Peyton  !  Yit  I  speck,  time  I  got  dar,  I'd  whirl  in  en 
wish  myse'f  back  home." 

The  negro  boy  carried  the  gentleman's  valise  into 
the  sleeping-coach,  and  placed  it  opposite  the  seats 
occupied  by  Helen  and  her  aunt.  Across  the  end 
was  stencilled  in  white  the  name  "  Peyton  Garwood." 
When  the  train  was  ready  to  start,  the  gentleman 


152  Azalia. 

shook  hands  with  the  negro  woman  and  with  the 
boy.     The  woman  seemed  to  be  very  much  affected. 

"  God  A'mighty  bless  you,  Marse  Peyton,  honey  !  " 
she  exclaimed  as  the  train  moved  off ;  and  as  long 
as  Helen  could  see  her,  she  was  waving  her  hands 
in  farewell.  Both  Helen  and  her  aunt  had  watched 
this  scene  with  considerable  interest,  and  now,  when 
the  gentleman  had  been  escorted  to  his  seat  by  the 
obsequious  porter,  they  regarded  him  with  some  curi- 
osity. He  appeared  to  be  about  thirty-five  years  old. 
His  face  would  have  been  called  exceedingly  hand- 
some, but  for  a  scar  on  his  right  cheek ;  and  yet,  on 
closer  inspection,  the  scar  seemed  somehow  to  fit 
the  firm  outlines  of  his  features.  His  brown  beard 
emphasized  the  strength  of  his  chin.  His  nose  was 
slightly  aquiline,  his  eyebrows  were  a  trifle  rugged, 
and  his  hair  was  brushed  straight  back  from  a  high 
forehead.  His  face  was  that  of  a  man  who  had  seen 
rough  service  and  had  enjoyed  it  keenly,  —  a  face 
full  of  fire  and  resolution,  with  some  subtle  sugges- 
tion of  tenderness. 

"She  called  him  'Master/  Helen,"  said  Miss 
Tewksbury  after  a  while,  referring  to  the  scene  at 
the  -station ;  "did  you  hear  her?"  Miss  Tewks- 
bury's  tone  implied  wrathfulness  that  was  too  sure  of 
its  own  justification  to  assert  itself  noisily. 

"I  heard  her,"  Helen  replied.  "She  called  him 
Master,  and  he  called  her  Mammy.  It  was  a  very 
pleasing  exchange  of  compliments." 


.     Azalia.  1 5  3 

Such  further  comment  as  the  ladies  may  have  felt 
called  on  to  make  —  for  it  was  a  matter  in  which 
both  were  very  much  interested  —  was  postponed  for 
the  time  being.  A  passenger  occupying  a  seat  in  the 
farther  end  of  the  coach  had  recognized  the  gentle- 
man whose  valise  was  labelled  "Peyton  Garwood," 
and  now  pressed  forward  to  greet  him.  This  pas- 
senger was  a  very  aggressive-looking  person.  He 
was  short  and  stout,  but  there  was  no  suggestion  of 
jollity  or  even  of  good  humor  in  his  rotundity.  No 
one  would  have  made  the  mistake  of  alluding  to  him 
as  a  fat  man.  He  would  have  been  characterized  as 
the  pudgy  man  ;  and  even  his  pudginess  was  aggres- 
sive. He  had  evidently  determined  to  be  dignified 
at  any  cost,  but  his  seriousness  seemed  to  be  perfectly 
gratuitous. 

"  Gener'l  Garwood  ?  "  he  said  in  an  impressive 
tone,  as  he  leaned  over  the  tall  gentleman's  seat. 

"Ah!  Goolsby !  "  exclaimed  the  other,  extending 
his  hand.     "  Why,  how  do  you  do  ?     Sit  down." 

Goolsby' s  pudginess  became  more  apparent  and 
apparently  more  aggressive  than  ever  when  he  seated 
himself  near  Gen.  Garwood. 

"Well,  sir,  I  can't  say  my  health's  any  too  good. 
You  look  mighty  well  yourse'f,  gener'l.  How  are 
things  ? "  said  Goolsby,  pushing  his  travelling-cap 
over  his  eyes,  and  frowning  as  if  in  pain. 

"Oh,  affairs  seem  to  be  improving,"  Gen.  Garwood 
replied. 


154  Azalia. 

"  Well,  now,  I  ain't  so  up  and  down  certain  about 
that,  gener'l,"  said  Goolsby,  settling  himself  back, 
and  frowning  until  his  little  eyes  disappeared. 
"  Looks  like  to  me  that  things  git  wuss  and  wuss. 
I  ain't  no  big  man,  and  I'm  ruther  disj'inted  when 
it  comes  right  down  to  politics  ;  but  blame  me  if  it 
don't  look  to  me  mighty  like  the  whole  of  creation  is 
driftin'  'round  loose." 

"Ah,  well,"  said  the  general  soothingly,  "a  great 
many  things  are  uncomfortable  ;  there  is  a  good  deal 
of  unnecessary  irritation  growing  out  of  new  and 
unexpected  conditions.  But  we  are  getting  along 
better  than  we  are  willing  to  admit.  We  are  all 
fond  of  grumbling." 

"That's  so,"  said  Goolsby,  with  the  air  of  a  man 
who  is  willing  to  make  any  sacrifice  for  the  sake  of  a 
discussion;  "that's  so.  But  I  tell  you  we're  havin' 
mighty  tough  times,  gener'l, — mighty  tough  times. 
Yonder's  the  Yankees  on  one  side,  and  here's  the 
blamed  niggers  on  t'other,  and  betwixt  and  betweenst 
'em  a  white  man's  got  mighty  little  chance.  And 
then,  right  on  top  of  the  whole  caboodle,  here  comes 
the  panic  in  the  banks,  and  the  epizooty  'mongst  the 
cattle.  I  tell  you,  gener'l,  it's  tough  times,  and  it's 
in-about  as  much  as  an  honest  man  can  do  to  pay 
hotel  bills  and  have  a  ticket  ready  to  show  up  when 
the  conductor  comes  along."  s\ 

Gen.  Garwood  smiled  sympathetically,  and  Goolsby 
went  on :  — 


Azalia.  1 5  5 

"  Here  I've  been  runnin'  up  and  down  the  country 
tryin'  to  sell  a  book,  and  I  ain't  sold  a  hunderd  copies 
sence  I  started, —  no,  sir,  not  a  hunderd  copies. 
Maybe  you'd  like  to  look  at  it,  gener'l,"  continued 
Goolsby,  stiffening  up  a  little.  "  If  I  do  say  it  my- 
self, it's  in-about  the  best  book  that  a  man'll  git  a 
chance  to  thumb  in  many  a  long  clay." 

"What  book  is  it,  Goolsby  ?  "  the  general  inquired. 

Goolsby  sprang  up,  waddled  rapidly  to  where  he 
had  left  his  satchel,  and  returned,  bringing  a  large 
and  substantial-looking  volume. 

"  It's  a  book  that  speaks  for  itself  any  day  in  the 
week,"  he  said,  running  the  pages  rapidly  between 
his  fingers  ;  "it's  a  history  of  our  own  great  conflict, 
— '  The  Rise  and  Fall  of  the  Rebellion,'  by  Schuyler 
Paddleford.  I  don't  know  what  the  blamed  publish- 
ers wanted  to  put  it  '  Rebellion '  for.  I  told  'em, 
says  I,  '  Gentlemen,  it'll  be  up-hill  work  with  this  in 
the  Sunny  South.  Call  it  "The  Conflict,"'  says  I. 
But  they  wouldn't  listen,  and  now  I  have  to  work  like 
a  blind  nigger  splittin'  rails.  But  she's  a  daisy, 
gener'l,  as  shore  as  you're  born.  She  jess  reads  right 
straight  along  from  cover  to  cover  without  a  bobble. 
Why,  sir,  I  never  know'd  what  war  was  till  I  mean- 
dered through  the  sample  pages  of  this  book.  And 
they've  got  your  picture  in  here,  gener'l,  jest  as 
natural  as  life, — all  for  five  dollars  in  cloth,  eight 
in  liberry  style,  and  ten  in  morocker." 

Gen.  Garwood  glanced  over  the    specimen  pages 


156  Azalia. 

with  some  degree  of  interest,  while  Goolsby  continued 
to  talk. 

"Now,  betwixt  you  and  me,  gener'l,"  he  went  on 
confidentially,  "  I  don't  nigh  like  the  style  of  that 
book,  particular  where  it  rattles  up  our  side.  I  wa'n't 
in  the  war  myself,  but  blame  me  if  it  don't  rile  me 
when  I  hear  outsiders  a-cussin'  them  that  was.  I 
come  mighty  nigh  not  takin'  holt  of  it  on  that  ac- 
count ;  but  'twouldn't  have  done  no  good,  not  a  bit. 
If  sech  a  book  is  got  to  be  circulated  around  here,  it 
better  be  circulated  by  some  good  Southron,  —  a  man 
that's  a  kind  of  antidote  to  the  pizen,  as  it  were.  If 
I  don't  sell  it,  some  blamed  Yankee'll  jump  in  and 
gallop  around  with  it.  And  I  tell  you  what,  gener'l, 
betwixt  you  and  me  and  the  gate-post,  it's  done  come 
to  that  pass  where  a  man  can't  afford  to  be  too  pleg- 
ged  particular ;  if  he  stops  for  to  scratch  his  head 
and  consider  whether  he's  a  gentleman,  some  other 
feller'll  jump  in  and  snatch  the  rations  right  out  of 
his  mouth.  That's  why  I'm  a-paradin'  around  tryin' 
to  sell  this  book." 

"Well,"  said  Gen.  Garwood  in  an  encouraging 
tone,  "  I  have  no  doubt  it  is  a  very  interesting  book. 
I  have  heard  of  it  before.  Fetch  me  a  copy  when 
you  come  to  Azalia  again." 

Goolsby  smiled  an  unctuous  and  knowing  smile. 

"  Maybe  you  think  I  ain't  a-comin',"  he  exclaimed, 
with  the  air  of  a  man  who  has  invented  a  joke  that 
he   relishes.     "  Well,  sir,  you're  getting  the  wrong 


Azalia.  157 

measure.  I  was  down  in  'Zalia  Monday  was  a  week, 
and  I'm  a-goin'  down  week  after  next.  Fact  is," 
continued  Goolsby,  rather  sheepishly,  "  'Zalia  is  a 
mighty  nice  place.  Gener'l,  do  you  happen  to  know 
Miss  Louisa  Hornsby  ?  Of  course  you  do !  Well, 
sir,  you  might  go  a  week's  journey  in  the  wildwood, 
as  the  poet  says,  and  not  find  a  handsomer  gal  then 
that.     She's  got  style  from  away  back." 

"  Why,  yes ! "  exclaimed  the  general  in  a  tone  of 
hearty  congratulation,  "  of  course  I  know  Miss  Lou. 
She  is  a  most  excellent  young  lady.  And  so  the 
wind  sits  in  that  quarter  ?  Your  blushes,  Goolsby, 
are  a  happy  confirmation  of  many  sweet  and  piquant 
rumors." 

Goolsby  appeared  to  be  very  much  embarrassed. 
He  moved  about  uneasily  in  his  seat,  searched  in  all 
his  pockets  for  something  or  other  that  wasn't  there, 
and  made  a  vain  effort  to  protest.  He  grew  violently 
red  in  the  face,  and  the  vivid  color  gleamed  through 
his  closely  cropped  hair. 

"Oh,  come  now,  gener'l!"  he  exclaimed.  "Oh, 
pshaw  !     Why  —  oh,  go  'way  !  " 

His  embarrassment  was  so  great,  and  seemed  to 
border  so  closely  on  epilepsy,  that  the  general  was 
induced  to  offer  him  a  cigar  and  invite  him  into  the 
smoking-apartment.  As  Gen.  Garwood  and  Goolsby 
passed  out,  Helen  Eustis  drew  a  long  breath. 

"  It  is  worth  the  trouble  of  a  long  journey  to  behold 
such  a  spectacle,"  she  declared.     Her  aunt  regarded 


158  Azalia. 

her  curiously.  "Who  would  have  thought  it  ?"  she 
went  on,  —  "a  Southern  secessionist  charged  with 
affability,  and  a  book-agent  radiant  with  embarrass- 
ment ! " 

"  He  is  a  coarse,  ridiculous  creature,"  said  Miss 
Tewksbury  sharply. 

"  The  affable  general,  Aunt  Harriet  ?  " 

"No,  child;  the  other." 

"  Dear  aunt,  we  are  in  the  enemy's  country,  and 
we  must  ground  our  prejudices.  The  book-agent  is 
pert  and  crude,  but  he  is  not  coarse.  A  coarse  man 
may  be  in  love,  but  he  would  never  blush  over  it. 
And  as  for  the  affable  general  —  you  saw  the  negro 
woman  cry  over  him." 

"Poor  thing!"  said  Miss  Tewksbury,  with  a  sigh. 
"  She  sadly  needs  Instruction." 

"  Ah,  yes  !  that  is  a  theory  we  should  stand  to, 
but  how  shall  we  instruct  her  to  run  and  cry  after 
us  ? " 

"  My  dear  child,  we  want  no  such  disgusting  ex- 
hibitions. It  is  enough  if  we  do  our  duty  by  these 
unfortunates." 

"But  I  do  want  just  such  an  exhibition,  Aunt 
Harriet,"  said  Helen  seriously.  "I  should  be  glad 
to  have  some  fortunate  or  unfortunate  creature  run 
and  cry  after  me." 

"  Well,"  said  Miss  Tewksbury  placidly,  "  we  are 
about  to  ignore  the  most  impressive  fact,  after  all." 

"What  is  that,  Aunt  Harriet  ?  " 


Azalia.  159 

"Why,  child,  these  people  are  from  Azalia,  and 
for  us  Azalia  is  the  centre  of  the  universe." 

"Ah,  don't  pretend  that  you  are  not  charmed, 
dear  aunt.  We  shall  have  the  pleasure  of  meeting 
the  handsome  Miss  Hornsby,  and  probably  Mr. 
Goolsby  himself  —  and  certainly  the  distinguished 
general." 

"  I  only  hope  Ephraim  Buxton  has  a  clear  con- 
science to-day,"  remarked  Miss  Tewksbury  with 
unction. 

"  Did  you  observe  the  attitude  of  the  general 
towards  Mr.  Goolsby,  and  that  of  Mr.  Goolsby  to- 
wards the  general  ? "  asked  Helen,  ignoring  the 
allusion  to  Dr.  Buxton.  "  The  line  that  the  general 
drew  was  visible  to  the  naked  eye.  But  Mr.  Gools- 
by drew  no  line.  He  is  friendly  and  familiar  on 
principle.  I  was  reminded  of  the  'Brookline  Re- 
porter,' which  alluded  the  other  day  to  the  London 
'Times'  as  its  esteemed  contemporary.  The  affable 
general  is  Mr.  Goolsby's  esteemed  contemporary." 

"My  dear  child,"  said  Miss  Tewksbury,  somewhat 
anxiously,  "  I  hope  your  queer  conceits  are  not  the 
result  of  your  illness." 

"  No,  they  are  the  result  of  my  surroundings.  I 
have  been  trying  to  pretend  to  myself,  ever  since  we 
left  Washington,  that  we  are  travelling  through  a 
strange  country ;  but  it  is  a  mere  pretence.  I  have 
been  trying  to  verify  some  previous  impressions  of 
barbarism  and  shiftlessness." 


160  Azalia. 

"Well,  upon  my  word,  my  dear,"  exclaimed  Miss 
Tewksbury,  "  I  should  think  you  had  had  ample, 
opportunity." 

"I  have  been  trying  to  take  the  newspaper  view," 
Helen  went  on  with  some  degree  of  earnestness, 
"  but  it  is  impossible.  V/e  must  correct  the  news- 
papers, Aunt  Harriet,  and  make  ourselves  famous. 
Every  thing  I  have  seen  that  is  not  to  be  traced  to 
the  result  of  the  war  belongs  to  a  state  of  arrested 
development." 

Miss  Tewksbury  was  uncertain  whether  her  niece 
was  giving  a  new  turn  to  her  drollery,  so  she  merely 
stared  at  her ;  but  the  young  lady  seemed  to  be 
serious  enough. 

"Don't  interrupt  me,  Aunt  Harriet.  Give  me  the 
opportunity  you  would  give  to  Dr.  Barlow  Blade, 
the  trance  medium.  Every  thing  I  see  in  this  coun- 
try belongs  to  a  state  of  arrested  development,  and 
it  has  been  arrested  at  a  most  interesting  point.  It 
is  picturesque.  It  is  colonial.  I  am  amazed  that 
this  fact  has  not  been  dwelt  on  by  people  who  write 
about  the  South." 

"  The  conservatism  that  prevents  progress,  or 
stands  in  the  way  of  it,  is  a  crime,"  said  Miss 
Tewksbury,  pressing  her  thin  lips  together  firmly. 
She  had  once  been  on  the  platform  in  some  of  the 
little  country  towns  of  New  England,  and  had  made 
quite  a  reputation  for  pith  and  fluency. 

"Ah,  dear  aunt,  that  sounds  like  an  extract  from  a 


Azalia.  161 

lecture.  We  can  have  progress  in  some  things,  but 
not  in  others.  We  have  progressed  in  the  matter  of 
conveniences,  comforts,  and  luxuries,  but  in  what 
other  directions  ?  Are  we  any  better  than  the  people 
who  lived  in  the  days  of  Washington,  Jefferson,  and 
Madison  ?  Is  the  standard  of  morality  any  higher 
now  than  it  was  in  the  days  of  the  apostles  ? " 

"Don't  talk  nonsense,  Helen,"  said  Miss  Tewks- 
bury.  "We  have  a  higher  civilization  than  the 
apostles  witnessed.     Morality  is  progressive." 

"Well,"  said  Helen,  with  a  sigh,  "it  is  a  pity 
these  people  have  discarded  shoe-buckles  and  knee- 
breeches." 

"Your  queer  notions  make  me  thirsty,  child,"  said 
Miss  Tewksbury,  producing  a  silver  cup  from  her 
satchel.     "I  must  get  a  drink  of  water." 

"  Permit  me,  madam,"  said  a  sonorous  voice  behind 
them  ;  and  a  tall  gentleman  seized  the  cup,  and  bore 
it  away. 

"  It  is  the  distinguished  general !  "  exclaimed  Helen 
in  a  tragic  whisper,  "  and  he  must  have  heard  our 
speeches." 

"  I  hope  he  took  them  down,"  said  Miss  Tewks- 
bury snappishly.  "  He  will  esteem  you  as  a 
sympathizer." 

"Did  I  say  any  thing  ridiculous,  aunt  Harriet  ? " 

"  Dear  me  !  you  must  ask  your  distinguished 
general,"  replied  Miss  Tewksbury  triumphantly. 

Gen.    Garwood  returned  with  the  water,  and  in- 


1 62  Azalia. 

sisted  on  fetching  more.  Helen  observed  that  he 
held  his  hat  in  his  hand,  and  that  his  attitude  was 
one  of  unstudied  deference. 

"  The  conductor  tells  me,  madam,"  he  said,  ad- 
dressing himself  to  Miss  Tewksbury,  "  that  you 
have  tickets  for  Azalia.  I  am  going  in  that  direc- 
tion myself,  and  I  should  be  glad  to  be  of  any 
service  to  you.  Azalia  is  a  poor  little  place,  but  I 
like  it  well  enough  to  live  there.  I  suppose  that  is 
the  reason  the  conductor  told  me  of  your  tickets. 
He  knew  the  information  would  be  interesting." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Miss  Tewksbury  with  dignity. 

"  You  are  very  kind,"  said  Miss  Eustis  with  a 
smile. 

Gen.  Garwood  made  himself  exceedingly  agree- 
able. He  pointed  out  the  interesting  places  along 
the  road,  gave  the  ladies  little  bits  of  local  history 
that  were  at  least  entertaining.  In  Atlanta,  where 
there  was  a  delay  of  a  few  hours,  he  drove  them 
over  the  battle-fields,  and  by  his  graphic  descrip- 
tions gave  them  a  new  idea  of  the  heat  and  fury  of 
war.  In  short,  he  made  himself  so  agreeable  in 
every  way  that  Miss  Tewksbury  felt  at  liberty  to 
challenge  his  opinions  on  various  subjects.  They 
had  numberless  little  controversies  about  the  rights 
and  wrongs  of  the  war,  and  the  perplexing  prob- 
lems that  grew  out  of  its  results.  So  far  as  Miss 
Tewksbury  was  concerned,  she  found  Gen.  Garwood's 
large  tolerance  somewhat   irritating,  for  it  left  her 


Azalia.  1 63 

no  excuse  for  the  employment  of  her  most  effective 
arguments. 

"  Did  you  surrender  your  prejudices  at  Appomat- 
tox ?  "  Miss  Tewksbury  asked  him  on  one  occasion. 

"  Oh,  by  no  means  ;  you  remember  we  were 
allowed  to  retain  our  side-arms  and  our.  saddle- 
horses,"  he  replied,  laughing.  "I  still  have  my 
prejudices,  but  I  trust  they  are  more  important 
than  those  I  entertained  in  my  youth.  Certainly 
they  are  less  uncomfortable." 

"  Well,"  said  Miss  Tewksbury,  "  you  are  still 
unrepentant,  and  that  is  more  serious  than  any 
number  of  prejudices." 

"There  is  nothing  to  repent  of,"  said  the  gen- 
eral, smiling,  a  little  sadly  as  Helen  thought.  "It 
has  all  passed  away  utterly.  The  best  we  can  do 
is  that  which  seems  right  and  just  and  necessary. 
My  duty  was  as  plain  to  me  in  1861,  when  I  was  a 
boy  of  twenty,  as  it  is  to-day.  It  seemed  to  be  my 
duty  then  to  serve  my  State  and  section  ;  my  duty 
now  seems  to  be  to  help  good  people  everywhere 
to  restore  the  Union,  and  to  heal  the  wounds  of  the 
war." 

"  I'm  very  glad  to  hear  you  say  so,"  exclaimed 
Miss  Tewksbury  in  a  tone  that  made  Helen  shiver. 
"  I  was  afraid  it  was  quite  otherwise.  It  seems  to 
me,  that,  if  I  lived  here,  I  should  either  hate  the 
people  who  conquered  me,  or  else  the  sin  of  slavery 
would  weigh  heavily  on  my  conscience." 


164  A  z alia. 

"  I  can  appreciate  that  feeling,  I  think,"  said 
Gen.  Garwood,  "but  the  American  conscience  is  a 
very  healthy  one,  —  not  likely  to  succumb  to  influ- 
ences that  are  mainly  malarial  in  their  nature ;  and 
even  from  your  point  of  view  some  good  can  be 
found  in  American  slavery." 

"  I  have  never  found  it,"  said  Miss  Tewksbury. 

X.You  must  admit  that  but  for  slavery  the  negroes 
who  are  here  would  be  savages  in  Africa.  As  it  is, 
they  have  had  the  benefit  of  more  than  two  hun- 
dred years'  contact  with  the  white  race.  If  they 
are  at  all  fitted  for  citizenship,  the  result  is  due  to 
the  civilizing  influence  of  slavery.  It  seems  to  me 
that  they  are  vastly  better  off  as  American  citizens, 
even  though  they  have  endured  the  discipline  of 
slavery,  than  they  would  be  as  savages  in  Africa." 

Miss  Tewksbury's  eyes  snapped.  "  Did  this 
make  slavery  right?"  she  asked. 

"  Not  at  all,"  said  the  general,  smiling  at  the 
lady's  earnestness.  "But,  at  least,  it  is  something 
of  an  excuse  for  American  slavery.  It  seems  to  be 
an  evidence  that  Providence  had  a  hand  in  the 
whole  unfortunate  business." 

But  in  spite  of  these  discussions  and  contro- 
versies, the  general  made  himself  so  thoroughly 
agreeable  in  every  way,  and  was  so  thoughtful  in 
his  attentions,  that  by  the  time  Helen  and  her  aunt 
arrived  at  Azalia  they  were  disposed  to  believe  that 
he  had  placed   them    under  many  obligations,   and 


Azalia.  165 

they  said  so ;  but  the  general  insisted  that  it  was 
he  who  had  been  placed  under  obligations,  and  he 
declared  it  to  be  his  intention  to  discharge  a  few 
of  them  as  soon  as  the  ladies  found  themselves 
comfortably  settled  in  the  little  town  to  which  Dr. 
Buxton  had  banished  them. 


III. 


Azalia  was  a  small  town,  but  it  was  a  compara- 
tively comfortable  one.  For  years  and  years  before 
the  war  it  had  been  noted  as  the  meeting-place  of  the 
wagon-trains  by  means  of  which  the  planters  trans- 
ported their  produce  to  market.  It  was  on  the  high- 
way that  led  from  the  cotton-plantations  of  Middle 
Georgia  to  the  city  of  Augusta.  It  was  also  a  stop- 
ping-place for  the  stage-coaches  that  carried  the 
mails.  Azalia  was  not  a  large  town,  even  before  the 
war,  when,  according  to  the  testimony  of  the  entire 
community,  it  was  at  its  best  ;  and  it  certainly  had 
not  improved  any  since  the  war.  There  was  room 
for  improvement,  but  no  room  for  progress,  because 
there  was  no  necessity  for  progress.  The  people 
were  contented.  They  were  satisfied  with  things  as 
they  existed,  though  they  had  an  honest,  provincial 
faith  in  the  good  old  times  that  were  gone.  They 
had  but  one  regret,  —  that  the  railroad-station,  four 
miles  away,  had  been  named  Azalia.  It  is  true,  the 
station  consisted  of  a  water-tank  and  a  little  pigeon- 


1 66  Azalia. 

house  where  tickets  were  sold ;  but  the  people  of 
Azalia  proper  felt  that  it  was  in  the  nature  of  an  out- 
rage to  give  so  fine  a  name  to  so  poor  a  place.  They 
derived  some  satisfaction,  however,  from  the  fact 
that  the  world  at  large  found  it  necessary  to  make 
a  distinction  between  the  two  places.  Azalia  was 
called  "Big  Azalia,"  and  the  railroad-station  was 
known  as  "Little  Azalia." 

Away  back  in  the  forties,  or  perhaps  even  earlier, 
when  there  was  some  excitement  in  all  parts  of  the 
country  in  regard  to  railroad-building,  one  of  Geor- 
gia's most  famous  orators  had  alluded  in  the  legisla- 
ture to  Azalia  as  "  the  natural  gateway  of  the  com- 
merce of  the  Empire  State  of  the  South."  This  fine 
phrase  stuck  in  the  memories  of  the  people  of  Azalia 
and  their  posterity ;  and  the  passing  traveller,  since 
that  day  and  time,  has  heard  a  good  deal  of  it.  There 
is  no  doubt  that  the  figure  was  fairly  applicable 
before  the  railways  were  built ;  for,  as  has  been  ex-, 
plained,  Azalia  was  the  meeting-place  of  the  wagon- 
trains  from  all  parts  of  the  State  in  going  to  market. 
When  the  cotton-laden  wagons  met  at  Azalia,  they 
parted  company  no  more  until  they  had  reached 
Augusta.  The  natural  result  of  this  was  that  Azalia, 
in  one  way  and  another,  saw  a  good  deal  of  life,  — 
much  that  was  entertaining,  and  a  good  deal  that 
was  exciting.  Another  result  was  that  the  people 
had  considerable  practice  in  the  art  of  hospitality ; 
for  it  frequently  happened  that  the  comfortable  tav- 


Azalia.  167 

era,  which  Azalia's  commercial  importance  had  made 
necessary  at  a  very  early  period  of  the  town's  history, 
was  full  to  overflowing  with  planters  accompanying 
their  wagons,  and  lawyers  travelling  from  court  to 
court.  At  such  times  the  worthy  townspeople  would 
come  to  the  rescue,  and  offer  the  shelter  of  their 
homes  to  the  belated  wayfarer. 

There  was  another  feature  of  Azalia  worthy  of 
attention.  It  was  in  a  measure  the  site  and  centre 
of  a  mission,  —  the  headquarters,  so  to  speak,  of  a 
very  earnest  and  patient  effort  to  infuse  energy  and 
ambition  into  that  indescribable  class  of  people 
known  in  that  region  as  the  piney-woods  "Tackies." 
Within  a  stone's-throw  of  Azalia  there  was  a  scat- 
tering settlement  of  these  Tackies.  They  had  set- 
tled there  before  the  Revolution,  and  had  remained 
there  ever  since,  unchanged  and  unchangeable, 
steeped  in  poverty  of  the  most  desolate  description, 
and  living  the  narrowest  lives  possible  in  this  great 
Republic.  They  had  attracted  the  attention  of  the 
Rev.  Arthur  Hill,  an  Episcopalian  minister,  who 
conceived  an  idea  that  the  squalid  settlement  near 
Azalia  afforded  a  fine  field  for  missionary  labor.  Mr. 
Hill  established  himself  in  Azalia,  built  and  furnished 
a  little  church  in  the  settlement,  and  entered  on  a 
career  of  the  most  earnest  and  persevering  charity. 
To  all  appearances  his  labor  was  thrown  away ;  but 
he  was  possessed  by  both  faith  and  hope,  and  never 
allowed  himself  to  be  disheartened.     All  his  time,  as 


1 68  Azalia. 

well  as  the  modest  fortune  left  him  by  his  wife  who 
was  dead,  was  devoted  to  the  work  of  improving  and 
elevating  the  Tackies  ;  and  he  never  permitted  him- 
self to  doubt  for  an  instant  that  reasonable  success 
was  crowning  his  efforts.  He  was  gentle,  patient, 
and  somewhat  finical. 

This  was  the  neighborhood  towards  which  Miss 
Eustis  and  her  aunt  had  journeyed.  Fortunately 
for  these  ladies,  Major  Haley,  the  genial  tavern- 
keeper,  had  a  habit  of  sending  a  hack  to  meet  every 
train  that  stopped  at  Little  Azalia.  It  was  not  a 
profitable  habit  in  the  long-run;  but  Major  Haley 
thought  little  of  the  profits,  so  long  as  he  was  con- 
scious that  the  casual  traveller  had  abundant  reason 
to  be  grateful  to  him.  Major  Haley  himself  was  a 
native  of  Kentucky ;  but  his  wife  was  a  Georgian, 
inheriting  her  thrift  and  her  economy  from  a  genera- 
tion that  knew  more  about  the  hand-loom,  the  spin- 
ning-wheel, and  the  cotton-cards,  than  it  did  about 
the  piano.  She  admired  her  husband,  who  was  a 
large,  fine-looking  man,  with  jocular  tendencies  ;  but 
she  disposed  of  his  opinions  without  ceremony  when 
they  came  in  conflict  with  her  own.  Under  these 
circumstances  it  was  natural  that  she  should  have 
charge  of  the  tavern  and  all  that  appertained  thereto. 

Gen.  Garwood,  riding  by  from  Little  Azalia,  whith- 
er his  saddle-horse  had  been  sent  to  meet  him,  had 
informed  the  major  that  two  ladies  from  the  North 
were  coming  in  the  hack,  and  begged  him  to  make 


Asa  Ha.  169 

them  as  comfortable  as  possible.  This  information 
Major  Haley  dutifully  carried  to  his  wife. 

"Good  Lord!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Haley,  "what  do 
you  reckon  they  want  here  ?" 

"  I've  been  a-studyin',"  said  her  husband  thought- 
fully. "The  gener'l  says  they're  comin'  fer  their 
health." 

"Well,  it's  a  mighty  fur  cry  for  health,"  said  Mrs. 
Haley  emphatically.  "  I've  seen  some  monst'ous 
sick  people  around  here  ;  and  if  anybody'll  look  at 
them  Tackies  out  on  the  Ridge  yonder,  and  then 
tell  me  there's  any  health  in  this  neighborhood, 
then  I'll  give  up.  I  don't  know  how  in  the  wide 
world  we'll  fix  up  for  'em.  That  everlastin'  nigger 
went  and  made  too  much  fire  in  the  stove,  and  tee- 
totally  ruint  my  light-bread ;  I  could  'a'  cried,  I  was 
so  mad ;  and  then  on  top  er  that  the  whole  dinin'- 
room  is  tore  up  from  top  to  bottom." 

"Well,"  said  the  major,  "we'll  try  and  make 
'em  comfortable,  and  if  they  ain't  comfortable  it 
won't  be  our  fault.  Jest  you  whirl  in,  and  put  on 
some  of  your  Greene  County  style,  Maria.  That'll 
fetch  'em." 

"  It  may  fetch  'em,  but  it  won't  feed  'em,"  said 
the  practical  Maria. 

The  result  was,  that  when  Helen  Eustis  and  her 
aunt  became  the  guests  of  this  poor  little  country 
tavern,  they  were  not  only  agreeably  disappointed 
as    to    their   surroundings,    but    they   were    better 


170  Azalia. 

pleased  than  they  would  have  been  at  one  of  the 
most  pretentious  caravansaries.  Hotel  luxury  is 
comfortable  enough  to  those  who  make  it  a  point 
to  appreciate  what  they  pay  for  ;  but  the  appoint- 
ments of  luxury  can  neither  impart,  nor  compensate 
for  the  lack  of,  the  atmosphere  that  mysteriously 
conveys  some  impression  or  reminiscence  of  home. 
In  the  case  of  Helen  and  her  aunt,  this  impression 
was  conveyed  and  confirmed  by  a  quilt  of  curious 
pattern  on  one  of  the  beds  in  their  rooms. 

"  My  dear,"  said  Miss  Tewksbury,  after  making 
a  critical  examination,  "your  grandmother  had  just 
such  a  quilt  as  this.  Yes,  she  had  two.  I  remember 
the  first  one  was  quite  a  bone  of  contention  between 
your  mother  and  me,  and  so  your  grandmother  made 
two.  I  declare,"  Miss  Tewksbury  continued,  with 
a  sigh,  "it  quite  carries  me  back  to  old  times." 

"  It  is  well  made,"  said  Helen,  giving  the  stitches 
a  critical  examination,  "  and  the  colors  are  per- 
fectly matched.  Really,  this  is  something  to  think 
about,  for  it  fits  none  of  our  theories.  Perhaps, 
Aunt  Harriet,  we  have  accidentally  discovered  some 
of  our  long-lost  relatives.  It  would  be  nice  and 
original  to  substitute  a  beautiful  quilt  for  the 
ordinary  strawberry-mark." 

"  Well,  the  sight  of  it  is  comforting,  anyhow," 
said  Miss  Tewksbury,  responding  to  the  half-serious 
humor  of  her  niece  by  pressing  her  thin  lips 
togetner,  and  tossing  her  gray  ringlets. 


Azalia.  171 

As  she  spoke,  a  negro  boy,  apparently  about  ten 
years  old,  stalked  unceremoniously  into  the  room, 
balancing  a  large  stone  pitcher  on  his  head.  His 
hands  were  tucked  beneath  his  white  apron,  and 
the  pitcher  seemed  to  be  in  imminent  danger  of 
falling ;  but  he  smiled  and  showed  his  white  teeth. 

"  I  come  fer  ter  fetch  dish  yer  pitcher  er  water, 
raa'm.  Miss  'Ria  say  she  speck  you  lak  fer  have 
'im  right  fresh  from  de  well." 

"Aren't  you  afraid  you'll  drop  it?"  said  Miss 
Eustis. 

"  Lor',  no'm ! "  exclaimed  the  boy,  emphasizing 
his  words  by  increasing  his  grin.  "  I  been  ca'um 
dis  away  sence  I  ain't  no  bigger  dan  my  liT  buddy. 
Miss  'Ria,  she  say  dat  w'at  make  I  so  bow-legged." 

"  What  is  your  name  ?"  inquired  Miss  Tewksbury, 
with  some  degree  of  solemnity,  as  the  boy  deposited 
the  pitcher  on  the  wash-stand. 

"  Mammy  she  say  I  un  name  Willum,  but  Mars 
Maje  en  de  turrer  folks  dey  des  calls  me  Bill.  I 
run'd  off  en  sot  in  de  school-'ouse  all  day  one  day, 
but  dat  mus'  'a'  been  a  mighty  bad  day,  kaze  I  ain't 
never  year  um  say  wherrer  I  wuz  name  Willum,  er 
wherrer  I  wuz  des  name  Bill.  Miss  'Ria,  she  say 
dat  'tain't  make  no  diffunce  w'at  folks'  name  is, 
long  ez  dey  come  w'en  dey  year  turrer  folks  holl'in' 
at  um." 

"Don't  you  go  to  school,  child?"  Miss  Tewks- 
bury inquired,  with  dignified  sympathy. 


1 72  Azalia. 

"  I  start  in  once,"  said  William,  laughing,  "  but 
mos'  time  I  git  dar  de  nigger  man  vv'at  do  de 
teachin'  tuck'n  snatch  de  book  out'n  my  har?  en 
say  I  got  'im  upper-side  down.  I  tole  'im  dat  de 
onliest  way  w'at  I  kin  git  my  lesson,  en  den  dat 
nigger  man  tuck'n  lam  me  side  de  head.  Den  atter 
school  bin  turn  out,  I  is  hide  myse'f  side  de  road, 
en  w'en  dat  nigger  man  come  'long,  I  up  wid  a 
rock  en  I  fetched  'im  a  clip  dat  mighty  nigh  double 
'im  up.  You  ain't  never  is  year  no  nigger  man 
holler  lak  dat  nigger  man.  He  run'd  en  tole  Mars 
Peyt  dat  de  Kukluckers  wuz  atter  'im.  Mars  Peyt 
he  try  ter  quile  'im,  but  dat  nigger  man  done 
gone  ! " 

"  Don't  you  think  you  did  wrong  to  hit  him  ? " 
Miss  Tewksbury  asked. 

"Dat  w'at  Miss  'Ria  say.  She  say  I  oughter  be 
shame  er  myse'f  by  good  rights  ;  but  w'at  dat  nigger 
man  wanter  come  hurtin'  my  feelin'  fer  w'en  I 
settin'  dar  studyin'  my  lesson  des  hard  ez  I  kin, 
right  spang  out'n  de  book  ?  en  spozen  she  wuz 
upper-side  down,  wa'n't  de  lesson  in  dar  all  de 
time,  kaze  how  she  gwine  spill  out  ? " 

William  was  very  serious  —  indeed,  he  was  indig- 
nant—  when  he  closed  his  argument.  He  turned 
to  go  out,  but  paused  at  the  door,  and  said,  — 

"  Miss  'Ria  say  supper  be  ready  'mos'  'fo'  you  kin 
turn  'roun',  but  she  say  ef  you  too  tired  out  she'll 
have  it  sont  up."     William  paused,  rolled  his  eyes' 


Azalia.  173 

towards  the  ceiling,  smacked  his  mouth,  and  added, 
"I  gwine  fetch  in  de  batter-cakes  myse'f." 

Miss  Tewksbury  felt  in  her  soul  that  she  ought  to 
be  horrified  at  this  recital ;  but  she  was  grateful  that 
she  was  not  amused. 

"Aunt  Harriet,"  cried  Helen,  when  William  had 
disappeared,  "  this  is  better  than  the  seashore.  I  am 
stronger  already.  My  only  regret  is  that  Henry  P. 
Bassett,  the  novelist,  is  not  here.  The  last  time  I 
saw  him,  he  was  moping  and  complaining  that  his 
occupation  was  almost  gone,  because  he  had  ex- 
hausted all  the  types  —  that's  what  he  calls  them. 
He  declared  he  would  be  compelled  to  take  his  old 
characters,  and  give  them  a  new  outfit  of  emotions. 
Oh,  if  he  were  only  here  !  " 

"  I  hope  you  feel  that  you  are,  in  some  sense, 
responsible  for  all  this,  Helen,"  said  Miss  Tewksbury 
solemnly. 

"Do  you  mean  the  journey,  aunt  Harriet,  or  the 
little  negro  ?  " 

"  My  dear  child,  don't  pretend  to  misunderstand 
me.  I  cannot  help  feeling  that  if  we  had  done  and 
were  doing  our  whole  duty,  this  —  this  poor  negro  — 
Ah,  well !  it  is  useless  to  speak  of  it.  We  are  on 
missionary  ground,  but  our  hands  are  tied.  Oh,  I 
wish  Elizabeth  Mappis  were  here  !  She  would  teach 
us  our  duty." 

"  She  wouldn't  teach  me  mine,  Aunt  Harriet," 
said  Helen  seriously.     "  I  wouldn't  give  one  grain  of 


174  Azalia. 

your  common-sense  for  all  that  Elizabeth  Mappis  has 
written  and  spoken.  What  have  her  wild  theories 
to  do  with  these  people?  She  acts  like  a  man  in 
disguise.  When  I  see  her  striding  about,  delivering 
her  harangues,  I  always  imagine  she  is  wearing  a 
pair  of  cowhide  boots  as  a  sort  of  stimulus  to  her 
masculinity.     Ugh  !  I'm  glad  she  isn't  here." 

Ordinarily,  Miss  Tewksbury  would  have  defended 
Mrs.  Elizabeth  Mappis ;  but  she  remembered  that  a 
defence  of  that  remarkable  woman  —  as  remarkable 
for  her  intellect  as  for  her  courage — was  unneces- 
sary at  all  times,  and,  in  this  instance,  absolutely 
uncalled  for.  Moreover,  the  clangor  of  the  supper- 
bell,  which  rang  out  at  that  moment,  would  have 
effectually  drowned  out  whatever  Miss  Tewksbury 
might  have  chosen  to  say  in  behalf  of  Mrs.  Mappis. 

The  bellringer  was  William,  the  genial  little  negro 
whose  acquaintance  the  ladies  had  made,  and  he  per- 
formed his  duty  with  an  unction  that  left  nothing  to 
be  desired.  The  bell  was  so  large  that  William  was 
compelled  to  use  both  hands  in  swinging  it.  He 
bore  it  from  the  dining-room  to  the  hall,  and  thence 
from  one  veranda  to  the  other,  making  fuss  enough 
to  convince  everybody  that  those  who  ate  at  the 
tavern  were  on  the  point  of  enjoying  another  of  the 
famous  meals  prepared  under  the  supervision  of  Mrs. 
Haley. 

There  was  nothing  in  the  dining-room  to  invite 
the   criticism  of    Helen  and  her  aunt,  even  though 


Azalia.  1 75 

they  had  been  disposed  to  be  critical ;  there  was  no 
evidence  of  slatternly  management.  Every  thing  was 
plain,  but  neat.  The  ceiling  was  high  and  wide  ; 
and  the  walls  were  of  dainty  whiteness,  relieved 
here  and  there  by  bracket-shelves  containing  shiny 
crockery  and  glass-ware.  The  oil -lamps  gave  a 
mellow  light  through  the  simple  but  unique  paper 
shades  with  which  they  had  been  fitted.  Above  the 
table,  which  extended  the  length  of  the  room,  was 
suspended  a  series  of  large  fans.  These  fans  were 
connected  by  a  cord,  so  that  when  it  became  neces- 
sary to  cool  the  room,  or  to  drive  away  the  flies,  one 
small  negro,  by  pulling  a  string,  could  set  them  all 
in  motion. 

Over  this  dining-room  Mrs.  Haley  presided.  She 
sat  at  the  head  of  the  table,  serene,  cheerful,  and 
watchful,  anticipating  the  wants  of  each  and  every 
one  who  ate  at  the  board.  She  invited  Helen  and 
her  aunt  to  seats  near  her  own,  and  somehow  man- 
aged to  convince  them,  veteran  travellers  though 
they  were,  that  hospitality  such  as  hers  was  richly 
worth  paying  for. 

"  I  do  hope  you'll  make  out  to  be  comfortable  in 
this  poor  little  neighborhood,"  she  said  as  the  ladies 
lingered  over  their  tea,  after  the  other  boarders  — 
the  clerks  and  the  shopkeepers  —  had  bolted  their 
food  and  fare.  "  I  have  my  hopes,  and  I  have  my 
doubts.  Gener'l  Garwood  says  you're  come  to  mend 
your   health,"    she    continued,  regarding   the   ladies 


176  Azalia. 

with  the  critical  eye  of  one  who  has  had  something 
to  do  with  herbs  and  simples  ;  "and  I've  been  tryin' 
my  best  to  pick  out  which  is  the  sick  one,  but  it's 
a  mighty  hard  matter.  Yet  I  won't  go  by  looks, 
because  if  folks  looked  bad  every  time  they  felt  bad, 
they'd  be  some  mighty  peaked  people  in  this  world 
off  and  on.  —  William,  run  and  fetch  in  some  hot 
batter-cakes." 

"  I  am  the  alleged  invalid,"  said  Helen.  "  I  am 
the  victim  of  a  conspiracy  between  my  aunt  here 
and  our  family  physician. — Aunt  Harriet,  what  do 
you  suppose  Dr.  Buxton  would  say  if  he  knew  how 
comfortable  we  are  at  this  moment  ?  I  dare  say  he 
would  write  a  letter,  and  order  us  off  to  some  other 
point." 

"  My  niece,"  said  Miss  Tewksbury,  by  way  of 
explanation,  "has  weak  lungs,  but  she  has  never 
permitted  herself  to  acknowledge  the  fact." 

"Well,  my  goodness  !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Haley,  "if 
that's  all,  we'll  have  her  sound  and  well  in  a  little  or 
no  time.  Why,  when  I  was  her  age  I  had  a  hackin' 
cough  and  a  rackin'  pain  in  my  breast  night  and  day, 
and  I  fell  off  till  my  own  blood  kin  didn't  know  me. 
Everybody  give  me  up ;  but  old  Miss  Polly  Flanders 
in  Hancock,  right  j'inin'  county  from  Greene,  she 
sent  me  word  to  make  me  some  mullein-tea,  and 
drink  sweet  milk  right  fresh  from  the  cow ;  and  from 
that  day  to  this  I've  never  know'd  what  weak  lungs 
was.     I  reckon  you'll  be  mighty  lonesome  here,"  said 


Azalia.  I J  J 

Mrs.  Haley,  after  William  had  returned  with  a  fresh 
supply  of  batter-cakes,  "  but  you'll  find  folks  mighty 
neighborly,  once  you  come  to  know  'em.  And,  bless 
goodness,  here's  one  of  'em  now !  —  Howdy,  Emma 
Jane  ? " 

A  tall,  ungainly-looking  woman  stood  in  the  door 
of  the  dining-room  leading  to  the  kitchen.  Her 
appearance  showed  the  most  abject  poverty.  Her 
dirty  sunbonnet  had  fallen  back  from  her  head,  and 
hung  on  her  shoulders.  Her  hair  was  of  a  reddish- 
gray  color,  and  its  frazzled  and  tangled  condition  sug- 
gested that  the  woman  had  recently  passed  through 
a  period  of  extreme  excitement ;  but  this  suggestion 
was  promptly  corrected  by  the  wonderful  serenity 
of  her  face,  —  a  pale,  unhealthy-looking  face,  with 
sunken  eyes,  high  cheek-bones,  and  thin  lips  that 
seemed  never  to  have  troubled  themselves  to  smile  : 
a  burnt-out  face  that  had  apparently  surrendered  to 
the  past,  and  had  no  hope  for  the  future.  The 
Puritan  simplicity  of  the  woman's  dress  made  her 
seem  taller  than  she  really  was,  but  this  was  the  only 
illusion  about  her.  Though  her  appearance  was  un- 
couth and  ungainly,  her  manner  was  unembarrassed. 
She  looked  at  Helen  with  some  degree  of  interest ; 
and  to  the  latter  it  seemed  that  Misery,  hopeless  but 
unabashed,  gazed  at  he-r  with  a  significance  at  once 
pathetic  and  appalling.  In  response  to  Mrs.  Haley's 
salutation,  the  woman  seated  herself  in  the  doorway, 
and  sio-hed. 


178  Azalia. 

"You  must  be  tired,  Emma  Jane,  not  to  say 
howcly,"  said  Mrs.  Haley,  with  a  smile.  The  woman 
raised  her  right  hand  above  her  head,  and  allowed  it 
to  drop  helplessly  into  her  lap. 

"  Ti-ud !  Lordy,  Lordy !  how  kin  a  pore  creetur' 
like  me  be  ti-ud  ?  Hain't  I  thes  natally  made  out'n 
i'on  ? " 

"  Well,  I  won't  go  so  fur  as  to  say  that,  Emma 
Jane,"  said  Mrs.  Haley,  "but  you're  mighty  tough. 
Now,  you  know  that  yourself." 

"  Yes'n  —  yes'n.  I'm  made  out'n  i'on.  Lordy, 
Lordy !  I  thes  natally  hone  fer  some  un  ter  come 
along  an'  tell  me  what  makes  me  h'ist  up  an'  walk 
away  over  yan'  ter  the  railroad  track,  an'  set  thar  tell 
the  ingine  shoves  by.  I  wisht  some  un  ud  up  an' 
tell  me  what  makes  me  so  restless  an'  oneasy,  ef  it 
hain't  'cause  I'm  hongry.  I  thes  wisht  they  would. 
Passin'  on  by,  I  sez  ter  myself,  s'  I,  'Emma  Jane 
Stucky,'  s'  I,  'ef  you  know  what's  good  fer  your 
wholesome,'  s'  I,  'you'll  sneak  in  on  Miss  Haley, 
'cause  you'll  feel  better,'  s'  I,  '  ef  you  don't  no  more'n 
tell  'er  howdy,'  s'  I.  Lordy,  Lordy !  I  dunner  what 
ud  'come  er  me  ef  I  hadn't  a  bin  made  out'n  i'on." 

"  Emma  Jane,"  said  Mrs.  Haley,  in  the  tone  of  one 
who  is  humoring  a  child,  "these  ladies  are  from  the 
North." 

"Yes'n,"  said  the  woman,  glancing  at  Helen  and 
her  aunt  with  the  faintest  expression  of  pity  ;  "yes'n, 
I  hearn  tell  you  had  comp'ny.     Hit's  a  mighty  long 


Azalia.  1 79 

ways  fum  this,  the  North,  hain't  it,  Miss  Haley,  — 
a  long  ways  fuder'n  Tennissy  ?  Well,  the  Lord 
knows  I  pity  urn  fum  the  bottom  of  my  heart,  that  I 
do  —  a-bein'  such  a  long  ways  fum  home." 

"The  North  is  ever  so  much  farther  than  Ten- 
nessee," said  Helen  pleasantly,  almost  unconsciously 
assuming  the  tone  employed  by  Mrs.  Haley;  "but 
the  weather  is  so  very  cold  there  that  we  have  to 
run  away  sometimes." 

"You're  right,  honey,"  said  Mrs.  Stucky,  hugging 
herself  with  her  long  arms.  "  I  wisht  I  could  run 
away  fum  it  myself.  Ef  I  wa'n't  made  out'n  i'on,  I 
dunner  how  I'd  stan'  it.  Lordy !  when  the  win'  sets 
in  from  the  east,  hit  in-about  runs  me  plum  de- 
stracted.  Hit  kills  lots  an'  lots  er  folks,  but  they 
hain't  made  out'n  i'on  like  me." 

While  Mrs.  Stucky  was  describing  the  vigorous 
constitution  that  had  enabled  her  to  survive  in  the 
face  of  various  difficulties,  and  in  spite  of  many  mis- 
haps, Mrs.  Haley  was  engaged  in  making  up  a  little 
parcel  of  victuals.     This  she  handed  to  the  woman. 

"  Thanky-do  !  thanky-do,  ma'am  !  Me  an'  my  son'll 
set  down  an'  wallop  this  up,  an'  say  thanky-do  all  the 
time,  an'  atter  we're  done  we'll  wipe  our  mouves,  an' 
say  thanky-do." 

"I  reckon  you  ladies'll  think  we're  mighty  queer 
folks  down  here,"  said  Mrs.  Haley,  with  an  air  of 
apology,  after  Mrs.  Stucky  had  retired;  "but  I  de- 
clare I  can't  find   it   in   my  heart  to  treat  that  poor 


1 80  Azalia. 

creetur'  out  of  the  way.  I  set  and  look  at  her  some- 
times, and  I  wish  I  may  never  budge  if  I  don't  come 
mighty  nigh  cryin'.  She  ain't  hardly  fittin'  to  live, 
and  if  she's  fittin'  to  die,  she's  lots  better  off  than  the 
common  run  of  folks.  But  she's  mighty  worrysome. 
She  pesters  me  lots  mor'n  I  ever  let  on." 

"The  poor  creature  !  "  exclaimed  Miss  Tewksbury. 
"  I  am  truly  sorry  for  her  —  truly  sorry." 

"  Ah  !  so  am  I,"  said  Helen.  "  I  propose  to  see 
more  of  her.     I  am  interested  in  just  such  people." 

"Well,  ma'am,"  said  Mrs.  Haley  dryly,  "if  you 
like  sech  folks  it's  a  thousand  pities  you've  come 
here,  for  you'll  git  a  doste  of  'em.  Yes'm,  that  you 
will ;  a  doste  of  'em  that'll  last  you  as  long  as  you 
live,  if  you  live  to  be  one  of  the  patrioks.  And 
you  nee'nter  be  sorry  for  Emma  Jane  Stucky  neither. 
Jest  as  you  see  her  now,  jesso  she's  been  a-goin'  on 
fer  twenty  year/an'  jest  as  you  see  her  now,  jesso 
she's  been  a-lookin'  ev'ry  sence  anybody  around  here 
has  been  a-knowin'  her." 

"  Her  history  must  be  a  pathetic  one,"  said  Miss 
Tewksbury  with  a  sigh. 

"  Her  what,  ma'am  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Haley. 

"Her  history,  the  story  of  her  life,"  responded 
Miss  Tewksbury.     "  I  dare  say  it  is  very  touching." 

"  Well,  ma'am,"  said  Mrs.  Haley,  "  Emma  Jane 
Stucky  is  like  one  of  them  there  dead  pines  out 
there  in  the  clearin'.  If  you  had  a  stack  of  almanacs 
as  high  as   a    hoss-rack,   you  couldn't  pick  out  the 


Azalia.  181 

year  she  was  young  and  sappy.  She  must  'a'  started 
out  as  a  light'd  knot,  an'  she's  been  a-gittin'  tougher 
year  in  an'  year  out,  till  now  she's  tougher'n  the 
toughest.  No'm,"  continued  Mrs.  Haley,  replying 
to  an  imaginary  argument,  "I  ain't  predijiced  agin 
the  poor  creetur'  —  the  Lord  knows  I  ain't.  If  I 
was,  no  vittels  would  she  git  from  me,  —  not  a 
scrimption." 

"  I  never  saw  such  an  expression  on  a  human 
countenance,"  said  Helen.  "  Her  eyes  will  haunt 
me  as  long  as  I  live." 

"Bless  your  soul  and  body,  child!"  exclaimed 
Mrs.  Haley ;  "  if  you're  going  to  let  that  poor  cree- 
tur's  looks  pester  you,  you'll  be  worried  to  death,  as 
certain  as  the  world.  There's  a  hunderd  in  this 
settlement  jest  like  her,  and  ther'  must  be  more'n 
that,  old  an'  young,  'cause  the  children  look  to  be 
as  old  as  the'r  grannies.  I  reckon  maybe  you  ain't 
used  to  seein'  piney-woods  Tackies.  Well,  ma'am, 
you  wait  till  you  come  to  know  'em,  and  if  you  are 
in  the  habits  of  bein'  ha'nted  by  looks,  you'll  be  the 
wuss  ha'nted  mortal  in  this  land,  'less'n  it's  them 
that's  got  the  sperrit-rappin's  after  'em." 


IV. 

Mrs.  Stucky,  making  her  way  homeward  through 
the  gathering  dusk,  moved  as  noiselessly  and  as 
swiftly  as  a  ghost.     The  soft  white  sand  beneath  her 


1 82  Azalia. 

feet  gave  forth  no  sound,  and  she  seemed  to  be  glid- 
ing forward,  rather  than  walking ;  though  there  was 
a  certain  awkward  emphasis  and  decision  in  her 
movements  altogether  human  in  their  suggestions. 
The  way  was  lonely.  There  was  no  companionship 
for  her  in  the  whispering  sighs  of  the  tall  pines  that 
stood  by  the  roadside,  no  friendliness  in  the  constella- 
tions that  burned  and  sparkled  overhead,  no  hospi- 
table suggestion  in  the  lights  that  gleamed  faintly 
here  and  there  from  the  windows  of  the  houses  in 
the  little  settlement.  To  Mrs.  Stucky  all  was  com- 
monplace. There  was  nothing  in  her  surroundings 
as  she  went  towards  her  home,  to  lend  wings  even 
to  her  superstition,  which  was  eager  to  assert  itself 
on  all  occasions. 

It  was  not  much  of  a  home  to  which  she  was  mak- 
ing her  way,  —  a  little  log-cabin  in  a  pine  thicket,  sur- 
rounded by  a  little  clearing  that  served  to  show  how 
aimlessly  and  how  hopelessly  the  lack  of  thrift  and 
energy  could  assert  itself.  The  surroundings  were 
mean  enough  and  squalid  enough  at  their  best,  but 
the  oppressive  shadows  of  night  made  them  meaner 
and  more  squalid  than  they  really  were.  The  sun, 
which  shines  so  lavishly  in  that  region,  appeared  to 
glorify  the  squalor,  showing  wild  passion-flowers 
clambering  along  the  broken-down  fence  of  pine- 
poles,  and  a  wisteria  vine  running  helter-skelter 
across  the  roof  of  the  little  cabin.  But  the  night 
hid  all  this  completely. 


Azalia.  183 

A  dim,  vague  blaze,  springing  from  a  few  charred 
pine-knots,  made  the  darkness  visible  in  the  one  room 
of  the  cabin ;  and  before  it,  with  his  elbows  on  his 
knees  and  his  chin  in  his  hands,  sat  what  appeared 
to  be  a  man.  He  wore  neither  coat  nor  shoes,  and 
his  hair  was  long  and  shaggy. 

"  Is  that  you,  Bud  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Stucky. 

"  Why,  who'd  you  reckon  it  wuz,  maw  ? "  replied 
Bud,  looking  up  with  a  broad  grin  that  was  not  at  all 
concealed  by  his  thin  sandy  beard.  "  A  body'd  sorter 
think,  ef  they  'uz  ter  ketch  you  gwine  on  that  away, 
that  you  'spected  ter  find  some  great  somebody  er 
nuther  a-roostin'  in  here." 

Mrs.  Stucky,  by  way  of  responding,  stirred  the 
pine-knots  until  they  gave  forth  a  more  satisfactory 
light,  hung  her  bonnet  on  the  bedpost,  and  seated 
herself  wearily  in  a  rickety  chair,  the  loose  planks 
of  the  floor  rattling  and  shaking  as  she  moved  about. 

"  Now,  who  in  the  nation  did  you  reckon  it  wuz, 
maw  ? "  persisted  Bud,  still  grinning  placidly. 

"Some  great  somebody,"  replied  Mrs.  Stucky, 
brushing  her  gray  hair  out  of  her  eyes  and  looking 
at  her  son.  At  this,  Bud  could  contain  himself  no 
longer.     He  laughed  almost  uproariously. 

"  Well,  the  great  Jemimy ! "  he  exclaimed,  and 
then  laughed  louder  than  ever. 

"Wher've  you  been?"  Mrs.  Stucky  asked,  when 
Bud's  mirth  had  subsided. 

"Away   over   yander   at    the    depot,"    said    Bud, 


1 84  Azalia. 

indicating  Little  Azalia.  "  An'  I  fotch  you  some 
May-pops  too.  I  did  that !  I  seed  'em  while  I  wuz 
a-gwine  'long,  an'  I  sez  ter  myself,  sezee,  'You  jess 
wait  thar  tell  I  come  'long  back,  an'  I'll  take  an' 
take  you  ter  maw,'  sezee." 

Although  this  fruit  of  the  passion-flower  was  grow- 
ing in  profusion  right  at  the  door,  Mrs.  Stucky  gave 
this  grown  man,  her  son,  to  understand  that  May- 
pops  such  as  he  brought  were  very  desirable  indeed. 

"I  wonder  you  didn't  fergit  'em,"  she  said. 

"Who?. me!"  exclaimed  Bud.  "I  jess  like  fer 
ter  see  anybody  ketch  me  fergittin'  'em.  Now  I 
jess  would.     I  never  eat  a  one,  nuther  —  not  a  one." 

Mrs.  Stucky  made  no  response  to  this,  and  none 
seemed  to  be  necessary.  Bud  sat  and  pulled  his 
thin  beard,  and  gazed  in  the  fire.  Presently  he 
laughed  and  said,  — 

"  I  jess  bet  a  hoss  you  couldn't  guess  who  I  seed  ; 
now  I  jess  bet  that." 

Mrs.  Stucky  rubbed  the  side  of  her  face  thought- 
fully, and  seemed  to  be  making  a  tremendous  effort 
to  imagine  whom  Bud  had  seen. 

"  'Twer'n't  no  man,  en  'twer'n't  no  Azalia  folks. 
'Twuz  a  gal." 

"A  gal!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Stucky. 

"  Yes'n,  a  gal,  an'  ef  she  wa'n't  a  zooner  you  may 
jess  take  an'  knock  my  chunk  out." 

Mrs.  Stucky  looked  at  her  son  curiously.  Her 
cold  gray  eyes  glittered  in  the  firelight  as  she  held 


Azalia.  185 

them  steadily  on  his  face.  Bud,  conscious  of  this 
inspection,  moved  about  in  his  chair  uneasily,  shift- 
ing his  feet  from  one  side  to  the  other. 

"  'Twer'n't  no  Sal  Badger,"  he  said,  after  a  while, 
laughing  sheepishly  ;  "  'twer'n't  no  Maria  Matthews, 
'twer'n't  no  Lou  Hornsby,  an'  'twer'n't  no  Martha 
Jane  Williams,  nuther.  She  wuz  a  bran'-new  gal, 
an'  she  went  ter  the  tavern,  she  did." 

"  I've  done  saw  'er,"  said  Mrs.  Stucky  placidly. 

"  You  done  saw  'er,  maw ! "  exclaimed  Bud.  "  Well, 
the  great  Jemimy  !     What's  her  name,  maw  ?  "  - 

"They  didn't  call  no  names,"  said  Mrs.  Stucky. 
"They  jess  sot  thar,  an'  gormandized  on  waffles  an' 
batter-cakes,  an'  didn't  call  no  names.  Hit  made 
me  dribble  at  the  mouf,  the  way  they  went  on." 

"  Wuz  she  purty,  maw  ?  " 

"  I  sot  an'  looked  at  um,"  Mrs.  Stucky  went  on, 
"  an'  I  'lowed  maybe  the  war  moughter  come  betwixt 
the  old  un  an'  her  good  looks.  The  t'other  one 
looks  mighty  slick,  but,  Lordy  !  She  hain't  nigh  ez 
slick  ez  that  ar  Lou  Hornsby ;  yit  she's  got  lots 
purtier  motions." 

"Well,  I  seed  'er,  maw,"  said  Bud,  gazing  into 
the  depths  of  the  fireplace.  "  Atter  the  ingine  come 
a-snortin'  by,  I  jumped  up  behind  the  hack  whar  they 
puts  the  trunks,  an'  I  got  a  right  good  glimp'  un  'er ; 
an'  ef  she  hain't  purty,  then  I  dunner  what  purty  is. 
What'd  you  say  her  name  wuz,  maw  ?  " 

"Lordy,  jess  hark  ter  the  creetur  !     Hain't  I  jess 


1 86  Azalia. 

this  minute  hollered,  an'  tole  you  that  they  hain't 
called  no  names  ? " 

"  I  'lowed  maybe  you  moughter  hearn  the  name 
named,  an'  then  drapt  it,"  said  Bud,  still  gazing  into 
the  fire.  "  I  tell  you  what,  she  made  that  ole  hack 
look  big,  she  did  !  " 

"  You  talk  like  you  er  start  crazy,  Bud  !  "  exclaimed 
Mrs.  Stucky,  leaning  over,  and  fixing  her  glittering 
eyes  on  his  face.  "  Lordy !  what's  she  by  the  side 
er  me  ?     Is  she  made  out'n  i'on  ?  " 

Bud's  enthusiasm  immediately  vanished,  and  a 
weak,  flickering  smile  took  possession  of  his  face. 

"No'ra  —  no'm  ;  that  she  hain't  made  out'n  i'on! 
She's  lots  littler'n  you  is — lots  littler.  She  looks 
like  she's  sorry." 

"Sorry!     What  fer?" 

"  Sorry  fer  we-all." 

Mrs.  Stucky  looked  at  her  son  with  amazement, 
not  unmixed  with  indignation.  Then  she  seemed  to 
remember  something  she  had  forgotten. 

"  Sorry  fer  we-all,  honey,  when  we  er  got  this 
great  big  pile  er  tavern  vittles  ?  "  she  asked  with  a 
smile ;  and  then  the  two  fell  to,  and  made  the  most 
of  Mrs.  Haley's  charity. 

At  the  tavern  Helen  and  her  aunt  sat  long  at 
their  tea,  listening  to  the  quaint  gossip  of  Mrs. 
Haley,  which  not  only  took  a  wide  and  entertaining 
range,  but  entered  into  details  that  her  guests  found 
extremely  interesting.     Miss  Tewksbury's  name  re- 


Azalia.  187 

minded  Mrs.  Haley  of  a  Miss  Kingsbury,  a  Northern 
lady,  who  had  taught  school  in  Middle  Georgia,  and 
who  had  "writ  a  sure-enough  book,"  as  the  genial 
landlady  expressed  it.  She  went  to  the  trouble  of 
hunting  up  this  "  sure-enough  "  book,  —  a  small 
school  dictionary,  —  and  gave  many  reminiscences 
of  her  acquaintance  with  the  author. 

In  the  small  parlor,  too,  the  ladies  found  Gen. 
Garwood  awaiting  them  ;  and  they  held  quite  a  little 
reception,  forming  the  acquaintance,  among  others, 
of  Miss  Lou  Hornsby,  a  fresh-looking  young  woman, 
who  had  an  exclamation  of  surprise  or  a  grimace  of 
wonder  for  every  statement  she  heard  and  for  every 
remark  that  was  made.  Miss  Hornsby  also  went  to 
the  piano,  and  played  and  sang  "  Nelly  Gray  "  and 
"  Lily  Dale  "  with  a  dramatic  fervor  that  could  only 
have  been  acquired  in  a  boarding-school.  The  Rev. 
Arthur  Hill  was  also  there,  a  little  gentleman,  whose 
side-whiskers  and  modest  deportment  betokened  both 
refinement  and  sensibility.  He  was  very  cordial  to 
the  two  ladies  from  the  North,  and  strove  to  demon- 
strate the  liberality  of  his  cloth  by  a  certain  gayety 
of  manner  that  was  by  no  means  displeasing.  He 
seemed  to  consider  himself  one  of  the  links  of  socia- 
bility, as  well  as  master  of  ceremonies  ;  and  he  had 
a  way  of  speaking  for  others  that  suggested  consider- 
able social  tact  and  versatility.  Thus,  when  there 
was  a  lull  in  the  conversation,  he  started  it  again, 
and   imparted    to   it   a  vivacity   that  was   certainly 


1 88  Azalia. 

remarkable,  as  Helen  thought.  At  precisely  the 
proper  moment,  he  seized  Miss  Hornsby,  and  bore 
her  off  home,  tittering  sweetly  as  only  a  young  girl 
can ;  and  the  others,  following  the  example  thus 
happily  set,  left  Helen  and  her  aunt  to  themselves, 
and  to  the  repose  that  tired  travellers  are  supposed 
to  be  in  need  of.     They  were  not  long  in  seeking  it. 

"  I  wonder,"  said  Helen,  after  she  and  her  aunt 
had  gone  to  bed,  "  if  these  people  really  regard  us 
as  enemies  ?  " 

This  question  caused  Miss  Tewksbury  to  sniff  the 
air  angrily. 

"Pray,  what  difference  does  it  make  ?  "  she  replied. 

"Oh,  none  at  all!"  said  Helen.  "I  was  just 
thinking.  The  little  preacher  was  tremendously 
gay.  His  mind  seemed  to  be  on  skates.  He  touched 
on  every  subject  but  the  war,  and  that  he  glided 
around  gracefully.  No  doubt  they  have  had  enough 
of  war  down  here." 

"  I  should  hope  so,"  said  Miss  Tewksbury.  "  Go 
to  sleep,  child  :  you  need  rest." 

Helen  did  not  follow  this  timely  advice  at  once. 
From  her  window  she  could  see  the  constellations 
dragging  their  glittering  procession  westward ;  and 
she  knew  that  the  spirit  of  the  night  was  whisper- 
ing gently  in  the  tall  pines,  but  her  thoughts  were 
in  a  whirl.  The  scenes  through  which  she  had 
passed,  and  the  people  she  had  met,  were  new  to 
her ;  and  she  lay  awake  and  thought  of  them  until 


Azalia.  1 89 

at  last  the  slow-moving  stars  left  her  wrapped  in 
sleep,  —  a  sleep  from  which  she  was  not  aroused 
until  William  shook  the  foundations  of  the  tavern 
with  his  melodious  bell,  informing  everybody  that 
the  hour  for  breakfast  had  arrived. 

Shortly  afterwards,  William  made  his  appearance 
in  person,  bringing  an  abundance  of  fresh,  clear 
water.     He  appeared  to  be  in  excellent  humor. 

"  What  did  you  say  your  name  is  ?  "  Helen  asked. 
William  chuckled,  as  if  he  thought  the  question  was 
in  the  nature  of  a  joke. 

"I'm  name'  Willum,  ma'm,  en  my  mammy  she 
name'  Sa'er  Jane,  en  de  baby  she  name'  Philly- 
peener.  Miss  'Ria  she  say  dat  baby  is  de  likelies' 
nigger  baby  w'at  she  y'ever  been  see  sence  de  war, 
en  I  speck  she  is,  kaze  Miss  'Ria  ain't  been  talk  dat 
away  'bout  eve'y  nigger  baby  w'at  come  'long." 

"  How  old  are  you  ?  "  Miss  Tewksbury  inquired. 

"I  dunno'm,"  said  William  placidly.  "Miss 'Ria 
she  says  I'm  lots  older  dan  w'at  I  looks  ter  be,  en  I 
speck  dat's  so,  kaze  mammy  say  dey  got  ter  be  a 
runt  'mongst  all  folks's  famblies." 

Helen  laughed,  and  William  went  on  :  — 

"  Mammy  say  ole  Miss  gwine  come  see  you  all. 
Mars  Peyt  gwine  bring  'er." 

"Who  is  old  Miss?"  Helen  asked. 

William  gazed  at  her  with   unfeigned  amusement. 

"  Dunner  who  ole  Miss  is  ?  Lordy !  you  de  fus' 
folks  w'at  ain't  know  ole   Miss.     She    Mars    Peyt's 


1 90  Azalia. 

own  mammy,  dat's  who  she  is,  en  ef  she  come  lak 
dey  say  she  comin',  hit'll  be  de  fus'  time  she  y'ever 
sot  foot  in  dish  yer  tavern  less'n  'twuz  indurance  er 
de  war.  Miss  'Ria  say  she  wish  ter  goodness  ole 
Miss  'ud  sen'  word  ef  she  gwine  stay  ter  dinner  so 
she  kin  fix  up  somepin  n'er  nice.  I  dunno  whe'er 
Miss  Hallie  comin'  er  no,  but  ole  Miss  comin',  sho, 
kaze  I  done  been  year  um  sesso." 

"  And  who  is  Miss  Hallie  ? "  Helen  inquired,  as 
William  still  lingered. 

"Miss  Hallie  —  she  —  dunno'm,  ceppin'  she  des 
stays  dar  'long  wid  um.  Miss  'Ria  say  she  mighty 
quare,  but  I  wish  turrer  folks  wuz  quare  lak  Miss 
Hallie." 

William  staid  until  he  was  called  away,  and  at 
breakfast  Mrs.  Haley  imparted  the  information 
which,  in  William's  lingo,  had  sounded  somewhat 
scrappy.  It  was  to  the  effect  that  Gen.  Garwood's 
mother  would  call  on  the  ladies  during  their  stay. 
Mrs.  Haley  laid  great  stress  on  the  statement. 

"  Such  an  event  seems  to  be  very  interesting," 
Helen  said  rather  dryly. 

"Yes'm,"  said  Mrs.  Haley,  with  her  peculiar  em- 
phasis, "  it  ruther  took  me  back  when  I  heard  the 
niggers  talkin'  about  it  this  mornin'.  If  that  old 
lady  has  ever  darkened  my  door,  I've  done  forgot  it. 
She's  mighty  nice  and  neighborly,"  Mrs.  Haley  went 
on,  in  response  to  a  smile  which  Helen  gave  her 
aunt,  "but  she  don't  go  out  much.     Oh,  she's  nice 


Azalia.  191 

and  proud  ;  Lord,  if  pride  'ud  kill  a  body,  that  old 
'oman  would  'a'  been  dead  too  long  ago  to  talk  about. 
They're  all  proud — the  whole  kit  and  b'ilin'.  She 
mayn't  be  too  proud  to  come  to  this  here  tavern, 
but  I  know  she  ain't  never  been  here.  The  preacher 
used  to  say  that  pride  drives  out  grace,  but  I  don't 
believe  it,  because  that  'ud  strip  the  Garwoods  of 
all  they've  got  in  this  world ;  and  I  know  they're 
just  as  good  as  they  can  be." 

"  I  heard  the  little  negro  boy  talking  of  Miss 
Hallie,"  said  Helen.     "Pray,  who  is  she?" 

Mrs.  Haley  closed  her  eyes,  threw  her  head  back, 
and  laughed  softly. 

"  The  poor  child  !  "  she  exclaimed.  "  I  declare,  I 
feel  like  cryin'  every  time  I  think  about  her.  She's 
the  forlornest  poor  creetur  the  Lord  ever  let  live,  and 
one  of  the  best.  Sometimes,  when  I  git  tore  up 
in  my  mind,  and  begin  to  think  that  every  thing's 
wrong-end  foremost,  I  jess  think  of  Hallie  Garwood, 
and  then  I  don't  have  no  more  trouble." 

Both  Helen  and  her  aunt  appeared  to  be  inter- 
ested, and  Mrs.  Haley  went  on  :  — 

"The  poor  child  was  a  Herndon ;  I  reckon  you've 
heard  tell  of  the  Virginia  Herndons.  At  the  begin- 
ning of  the  war,  she  was  married  to  Ethel  Garwood ; 
and,  bless  your  life,  she  hadn't  been  married  more'n 
a  week  before  Ethel  was  killed.  'Twa'n't  in  no  bat- 
tle, but  jess  in  a  kind  of  skirmish.  They  fotch  him 
home,  and  Hallie  come  along  with  him,  and  right 


■  I 


192  Azalia. 

here  she's  been  ev'ry  sence.  She  does  mighty  quare. 
She  don't  wear  nothin'  but  black,  and  she  don't  go 
nowhere  less'n  it's  somewheres  where  there's  sick- 
ness. It  makes  my  blood  run  cold  to  think  about 
that  poor  creetur.  Trouble  hits  some  folks  and 
glances  off,  and  it  hits  some  and  thar  it  sticks.  I 
tell  you  what,  them  that  it  gives  the  go-by  ought  to 
be  monst'ous  proud." 

This  was  the  beginning  of  many  interesting  ex- 
periences for  Helen  and  her  aunt.  They  managed 
to  find  considerable  comfort  in  Mrs.  Haley's  genial 
gossip.  It  amused  and  instructed  them,  and,  at  the 
same  time,  gave  them  a  standard,  half-serious,  half- 
comical,  by  which  to  measure  their  own  experiences 
in  what  seemed  to  them  a  very  quaint  neighborhood. 
They  managed,  in  the  course  of  a  very  few  days,  to 
make  themselves  thoroughly  at  home  in  their  new 
surroundings  ;  and,  while  they  missed  much  that 
tradition  and  literature  had  told  them  they  would 
find,  they  found  much  to  excite  their  curiosity  and 
attract  their  interest. 

One  morning,  an  old-fashioned  carriage,  drawn  by 
a  pair  of  heavy-limbed  horses,  lumbered  up  to  the 
tavern  door.  Helen  watched  it  with  some  degree 
of  expectancy.  The  curtains  and  upholstering  were 
faded  and  worn,  and  the  panels  were  dingy  with  age. 
The  negro  driver  was  old  and  obsequious.  He 
jumped  from  his  high  seat,  opened  the  door,  let 
down   a  flight    of    steps,   and   then    stood  with   his 


Azalia.  193 

hat  off,  the  November  sun  glistening  on  his  bald 
head.  Two  ladies  alighted.  One  was  old,  and  one 
was  young,  but  both  were  arrayed  in  deep  mourning. 
The  old  lady  had  an  abundance  of  gray  hair  that 
was  combed  straight  back  from  her  forehead,  and 
her  features  gave  evidence  of  great  decision  of 
character.  The  young  lady  had  large,  lustrous  eyes, 
and  the  pallor  of  her  face  was  in  strange  contrast 
with  her  sombre  drapery.  These  were  the  ladies 
from  Waverly,  as  the  Garwood  place  was  called  ;  and 
Helen  and  her  aunt  met  them  a  few  moments  later. 

"  I  am  so  pleased  to  meet  you,"  said  the  old  lady, 
with  a  smile  that  made  her  face  beautiful.  "And 
this  is  Miss  Tewksbury.  Really,  I  have  heard  my 
son  speak  of  you  so  often  that  I  seem  to  know  you. 
This  is  my  daughter  Hallie.  She  doesn't  go  out 
often,  but  she  insisted  on  coming  with  me  to-day." 

"  I'm  very  glad  you  came,"  said  Helen,  sitting  by 
the  pale  young  woman  after  the  greetings  were 
over. 

"  I  think  you  are  lovely,"  said  Hallie,  with  the 
tone  of  one  who  is  settling  a  question  that  had  pre- 
viously been  debated.  Her  clear  eyes  from  which 
innocence,  unconquered  and  undimmed  by  trouble, 
shone  forth,  fastened  themselves  on  Helen's  face. 
The  admiration  they  expressed  was  unqualified  and 
Unadulterated.  It  was  the  admiration  of  a  child. 
But  the  eyes  were  not  those  of  a  child :  they  were 
such  as  Helen  had  seen  in  old  paintings,  and   the 


194  Azalia. 

pathos  that  seemed  part  of  their  beauty  belonged 
definitely  to  the  past. 

"  I  lovely  ? "  exclaimed  Helen  in  astonishment, 
blushing  a  little.  "  I  have  never  been  accused  of 
such  a  thing  before." 

"  You  have  such  a  beautiful  complexion,"  Hallie 
went  on  placidly,  her  eyes  still  fixed  on  Helen's  face. 
"  I  had  heard  —  some  one  had  told  me  —  that  you 
were  an  invalid.  I  was  so  sorry."  The  beautiful 
eyes  drooped,  and  Hallie  sighed  gently. 

"  My  invalidism  is  a  myth,"  Helen  replied,  some- 
what puzzled  to  account  for  the  impression  the  pale 
young  woman  made  on  her.  "  It  is  the  invention  of 
my  aunt  and  our  family  physician.  They  have  a 
theory  that  my  lungs  are  affected,  and  that  the  air 
of  the  pine-woods  will  do  me  good." 

"  Oh,  I  hope  and  trust  it  will,"  exclaimed  Hallie, 
with  an  earnestness  that  Helen  could  trace  to  no 
reasonable  basis  but  affectation.  "  Oh,  I  do  hope  it 
will  !     You  are  so  young  —  so  full  of  life." 

"  My  dear  child,"  said  Helen,  with  mock  gravity, 
"I  am  older  than  you  are,  —  ever  so  much  older." 

The  lustrous  eyes  closed,  and  for  a  moment  the  long 
silken  lashes  rested  against  the  pale  cheek.  Then 
the  eyes  opened,  and  gazed  at  Helen  appealingly. 

"  Oh,  impossible !  How  could  that  be  ?  I  was 
sixteen  in  1862." 

"Then,"  said  Helen,  "you  are  twenty-seven,  and 
I  am  twenty-five." 


Azalia.  195 

"  I  knew  it,  —  I  felt  it !  "  exclaimed  Hallie,  with 
pensive  animation. 

Helen  was  amused  and  somewhat  interested.  She 
admired  the  peculiar  beauty  of  Hallie ;  but  the 
efforts  of  the  latter  to  repress  her  feelings,  to  reach, 
as  it  were,  the  results  of  self-effacement,  were  not  at 
all  pleasing  to  the  Boston  girl. 

Mrs.  Garwood  and  Miss  Tewksbury  found  them- 
selves on  good  terms  at  once.  A  course  of  novel- 
reading,  seasoned  with  reflection,  had  led  Miss 
Tewksbury  to  believe  that  Southern  ladies  of  the 
first  families  possessed  in  a  large  degree  the  Oriental 
faculty  of  laziness.  She  had  pictured  them  in  her 
mind  as  languid  creatures,  with  a  retinue  of  servants 
to  carry  their  smelling-salts,  and  to  stir  the  trop- 
ical air  with  palm-leaf  fans.  Miss  Tewksbury  was 
pleased  rather  than  disappointed  to  find  that  Mrs. 
Garwood  did  not  realize  her  idea  of  a  Southern 
woman.  The  large,  lumbering  carriage  was  some- 
thing, and  the  antiquated  driver  threatened  to  lead 
the  mind  in  a  somewhat  romantic  direction ;  but  both 
were  shabby  enough  to  be  regarded  as  relics  and 
reminders  rather  than  as  active  possibilities. 

Mrs.  Garwood  was  bright  and  cordial,  and  the  air 
of  refinement  about  her  was  pronounced  and  unmis- 
takable. Miss  Tewksbury  told  her  that  Dr.  Buxton 
had  recommended  Azalia  as  a  sanitarium. 

"  Ephraim  Buxton ! "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Garwood. 
"Why,  you  don't  tell  me  that   Ephraim  Buxton   is 


196  Azalia. 

practising  medicine  in  Boston  ?  And  do  you  really 
know  him  ?  Why,  Ephraim  Buxton  was  my  first 
sweetheart !  " 

Mrs.  Garwood's  laugh  was  pleasant  to  hear,  and 
her  blushes  were  worth  looking  at  as  she  referred  to 
Dr.  Buxton.  Miss  Tevvksbury  laughed  sympatheti- 
cally but  primly. 

"  It  was  quite  romantic,"  Mrs.  Garwood  went  on, 
in  a  half-humorous,  half-confidential  tone.  "  Ephraim 
was  the  school-teacher  here,  and  I  was  his  eldest 
scholar.  He  was  young  and  green  and  awkward, 
but  the  best-hearted,  the  most  generous  mortal  I 
ever  saw.     I  made  quite  a  hero  of  him." 

"Well,"  said  Miss  Tevvksbury,  in  her  matter-of- 
fact  way,  "  I  have  never  seen  any  thing  very  heroic 
about  Dr.  Buxton.  He  comes  and  goes,  and  pre- 
scribes his  pills,  like  all  other  doctors." 

"Ah,  that  was  forty  years  ago,"  said  Mrs.  Garwood, 
laughing.  "A  hero  can  become  very  commonplace 
in  forty  years.  Dr.  Buxton  must  be  a  dear  good 
man.     Is  he  married  ?  " 

"No,"  said  Miss  Tewksbury.  "He  has  been  wise 
in  his  day  and  generation." 

"  What  a  pity !  "  exclaimed  the  other.  "  He  would 
have  made  some  woman  happy." 

Mrs.  Garwood  asked  many  questions  concerning 
the  physician  who  had  once  taught  school  at  Azalia; 
and  the  conversation  of  the  two  ladies  finally  took 
a  range  that  covered  all  New  England,  and,  finally, 


Asa  Ha.  197 

the  South.  Each  was  surprised  at  the  remarkable 
ignorance  of  the  other ;  but  their  ignorance  covered 
different  fields,  so  that  they  had  merely  to  exchange 
facts  and  information  and  experiences  in  order  to 
entertain  each  other.  They  touched  on  the  war  deli- 
cately, though  Miss  Tewksbury  had  never  cultivated 
the  art  of  reserve  to  any  great  extent.  At  the  same 
time  there  was  no  lack  of  frankness  on  either  side. 

"  My  son  has  been  telling  me  of  some  of  the  little 
controversies  he  had  with  you,"  said  Mrs.  Garwood. 
"  He  says  you  fairly  bristle  with  arguments." 

"The  general  never  heard  half  my  arguments," 
replied  Miss  Tewksbury.  "  He  never  gave  me  an 
opportunity  to  use  them." 

"  My  son  is  very  conservative,"  said  Mrs.  Garwood, 
with  a  smile  in  which  could  be  detected  a  mother's 
fond  pride.  "  After  the  war  he  felt  the  responsibility 
of  his  position.  A  great  many  people  looked  up  to 
him.  For  a  long  time  after  the  surrender  we  had 
no  law  and  no  courts,  and  there  was  a  great  deal  of 
confusion.  Oh,  you  can't  imagine  !  Every  man  was 
his  own  judge  and  jury." 

"So  I've  been  told,"  said  Miss  Tewksbury. 

"  Of  course  you  know  something  about  it,  but  you 
can  have  no  conception  of  the  real  condition  of 
things.  It  was  a  tremendous  upheaval  coming  after 
a  terrible  struggle,  and  my  son  felt  that  some  one 
should  set  an  example  of  prudence.  His  theory  was, 
and  is,  that  every  thing  was  for  the  best,  and  that 


198  Azalia. 

our  people  should  make  the  best  of  it.  I  think  he 
was  right,"  Mrs.  Garwood  added  with  a  sigh,  "but 
I  don't  know." 

"  Why,  unquestionably  !  "  exclaimed  Miss  Tewks- 
bury.  She  was  going  on  to  say  more  ;  she  felt  that 
here  was  an  opening  for  some  of  her  arguments  :  but 
her  eyes  fell  on  Hallie,  whose  pale  face  and  sombre 
garb  formed  a  curious  contrast  to  the  fresh-looking 
young  woman  who  sat  beside  her.  Miss  Tewksbury 
paused. 

"  Did  you  lose  any  one  in  the  war  ? "  Hallie  was 
asking  softly. 

"I  lost  a  darling  brother,"  Helen  replied. 

Hallie  laid  her  hand  on  Helen's  arm,  a  .beautiful 
white  hand.  The  movement  was  at  once  a  gesture 
and  a  caress. 

"Dear  heart !  "  she  said,  "you  must  come  and  see 
me.  We  will  talk  together.  I  love  those  who  are 
sorrowful." 

Miss  Tewksbury  postponed  her  arguments,  and 
after  some  conversation  the  visitors  took  their  leave. 

"Aunt  Harriet,"  said  Helen,  when  they  were 
alone,  "  what  do  you  make  of  these  people  ?  Did 
you  see  that  poor  girl,  and  hear  her  talk  ?  She 
chilled  me  and  entranced  me." 

"  Don't  talk  so,  child,"  said  Miss  Tewksbury ; 
"they  are  very  good  people,  much  better  people 
than  I  thought  we  should  find  in  this  wilderness. 
It  is  a  comfort  to  talk  to  them." 


Azalia.  199 

"But  that  poor  girl,"  said  Helen.  "She  is  a  mys- 
tery to  me.  She  reminds  me  of  a  figure  I  have  seen 
on  the  stage,  or  read  about  in  some  old  book." 

When  Azalia  heard  that  the  Northern  ladies  had 
been  called  on  by  the  mistress  of  Waverly,  that  por- 
tion of  its  inhabitants  which  was  in  the  habit  of 
keeping  up  the  forms  of  sociability  made  haste  to 
follow  her  example,  so  that  Helen  and  her  aunt  were 
made  to  feel  at  home  in  spite  of  themselves.  Gen. 
Garwood  was  a  frequent  caller,  ostensibly  to  engage 
in  sectional  controversies  with  Miss  Tewksbury, 
which  he  seemed  to  enjoy  keenly ;  but  Mrs.  Haley 
observed  that  when  Helen  was  not  visible  the  gen- 
eral rarely  prolonged  his  discussions  with  her  aunt. 

The  Rev.  Arthur  Hill  also  called  with  some  degree 
of  regularity ;  and  it  was  finally  understood  that 
Helen  would,  at  least  temporarily,  take  the  place  of 
Miss  Lou  Hornsby  as  organist  of  the  little  Episco- 
pal church  in  the  Tackey  settlement,  as  soon  as  Mr. 
Goolsby,  the  fat  and  enterprising  book-agent,  had 
led  the  fair  Louisa  to  the  altar.  This  wedding 
occurred  in  due  time,  and  was  quite  an  event  in 
Azalia's  social  history.  Goolsby  was  stout,  but  gal- 
lant ;  and  Miss  Hornsby  made  a  tolerably  handsome 
bride,  notwithstanding  a  tendency  to  giggle  when 
her  deportment  should  have  been  dignified.  Helen 
furnished  the  music,  Gen.  Garwood  gave  the  bride 
away,  and  the  little  preacher  read  the  ceremony 
quite   impressively ;    so  that  with  the   flowers    and 


200  Azalia. 

other  favors,  and  the  subsequent  dinner,  —  which 
Mrs.  Haley  called  an  "  infair,"  — the  occasion  was  a 
very  happy  and  successful  one. 

Among  those  who  were  present,  not  as  invited 
guests,  but  by  virtue  of  their  unimportance,  were 
Mrs.  Stucky  and  her  son  Bud.  They  were  followed 
and  flanked  by  quite  a  number  of  their  neighbors, 
who  gazed"  on  the  festal  scene  with  an  impressive 
curiosity  that  cannot  be  described.  Pale-faced,  wide- 
eyed,  statuesque,  their  presence,  interpreted  by  a 
vivid  imagination,  might  have  been  regarded  as  an 
omen  of  impending  misfortune.  They  stood  on  the 
outskirts  of  the  wedding  company,  gazing  on  the 
scene  apparently  without  an  emotion  of  sympathy  or 
interest.  They  were  there,  it  seemed,  to  see  what 
new  caper  the  townspeople  had  concluded  to  cut,  to 
regard  it  solemnly,  and  to  regret  it  with  grave  faces 
when  the  lights  were  out  and  the  fantastic  procession 
had  drifted  away  to  the  village. 

The  organ  in  the  little  church  was  a  fine  instru- 
ment, though  a  small  one.  It  had  belonged  to  the 
little  preacher's  wife,  and  he  had  given  it  to  the 
church.  To  his  mind,  the  fact  that  she  had  used  it 
sanctified  it,  and  he  had  placed  it  in  the  church  as 
a  part  of  the  sacrifice  he  felt  called  on  to  make 
in  behalf  of  his  religion.  Helen  played  it  with  un- 
common skill,  —  a  skill  born  of  a  passionate  appre- 
ciation of  music  in  its  highest  forms.  The  Rev. 
Mr.    Hill   listened    like   one    entranced,   but    Helen 


Azalia.  201 

played  unconscious  of  his  admiration.  On  the  out- 
skirts of  the  congregation  she  observed  Mrs.  Stucky, 
and  by  her  side  a  young  man  with  long  sandy  hair, 
evidently  uncombed,  and  a  thin  stubble  of  beard. 
Helen  saw  this  young  man  pull  Mrs.  Stucky  by 
the  sleeve,  and  direct  her  attention  to  the  organ. 
Instead  of  looking  in  Helen's  direction,  Mrs.  Stucky 
fixed  her  eyes  on  the  face  of  the  young  man  and 
held  them  there ;  but  he  continued  to  stare  at 
the  organist.  It  was  a  gaze  at  once  mournful  and 
appealing, — not  different  in  that  respect  from 
the  gaze  of  any  of  the  queer  people  around  him, 
but  it  affected  Miss  Eustis  strangely.  To  her  quick 
imagination,  it  suggested  loneliness,  despair,  that 
was  the  more  tragic  because  of  its  isolation.  It 
seemed  to  embody  the  mute,  pent-up  distress  of 
whole  generations.  Somehow  Helen  felt  herself  to 
be  playing  for  the  benefit  of  this  poor  creature.  The 
echoes  of  the  wedding-march  sounded  grandly  in  the 
little  church,  then  came  a  softly  played  interlude, 
and  finally  a  solemn  benediction,  in  which  solicitude 
seemed  to  be  giving  happiness  a  sweet  warning.  As 
the  congregation  filed  out  of  the  church,  the  organ 
sent  its  sonorous  echoes  after  the  departing  crowd, 
—  echoes  that  were  taken  up  by  the  whispering  and 
sighing  pines,  and  borne  far  into  the  night. 

Mrs.  Stucky  did  not  go  until  after  the  lights  were 
out ;  and  then  she  took  her  son  by  the  hand,  and  the 
two  went  to  their  lonely  cabin  not  far  away.     They 


202  Azalia. 

went  in,  and  soon  had  a  fire  kindled  on  the  hearth. 
No  word  had  passed  between  them ;  but  after  a 
while,  when  Mrs.  Stucky  had  taken  a  seat  in  the 
corner,  and  lit  her  pipe,  she  exclaimed,  — 

"  Lordy  !  what  a  great  big  gob  of  a  man  !  I  dunner 
what  on  the  face  er  the  yeth  Lou  Hornsby  could  'a' 
been  a-dreamin'  about.  From  the  way  she's  been 
a-gigglin'  aroun'  I'd  'a'  thought  she'd  'a'  sot  her  cap 
fer  the  giner'l." 

"  I  say  it !  "  said  Bud,  laughing  loudly.  "  Whatter 
you  reckon  the  giner'l  'ud  'a'  been  a-doin'  all  that 
time  ?  I  see  'er  now,  a-gigglin'  an'  a-settin'  'er  cap 
fer  the  giner'l.     Lordy,  yes  !  " 

"What's  the  matter  betwixt  you  an'  Lou  ?  "  asked 
Mrs.  Stucky  grimly.  "  'Tain't  been  no  time  senst 
you  wuz  a-totin'  water  fer  her  ma,  an'  a-hangin' 
aroun'  whilst  she  played  the  music  in  the  church 
thar."  Bud  continued  to  laugh.  "But,  Lordy!" 
his  mother  went  on,  "  I  reckon  you'll  be  a-totin' 
water  an'  a-runnin'  er'n's  fer  thish  yer  Yankee  gal 
what  played  on  the  orgin  up  thar  jess  now." 

"  Well,  they  hain't  no  tellin',"  said  Bud,  rubbing 
his  thin  beard  reflectively.  "  She's  mighty  spry 
'long  er  that  orgin,  an'  she's  got  mighty  purty  han's 
an'  mighty  nimble  fingers,  an'  ef  she  'uz  ter  let  down 
her  ha'r,  she'd  be  plum  ready  ter  fly." 

"  She  walked  home  wi'  the  giner'l,"  said  Mrs. 
Stucky. 

"  I  seed  'er,"  said  Bud.     "  He  sent  some  yuther 


Azalia.  203 

gals  home  in  the  carriage,  an'  him  an'  the  Yankee 
gal  went  a-walkin  down  the  road.  He  humped  up 
his  arm  this  away,  an'  the  gal  tuck  it,  an'  off  they 
put."  Bud  seemed  to  enjoy  the  recollection  of  the 
scene ;  for  he  repeated,  after  waiting  a  while  to  see 
what  his  mother  would  have  to  say,  —  "  Yes,  siree  ! 
she  tuck  it,  an'  off  they  put." 

Mrs.  Stucky  looked  at  this  grown  man,  her  son, 
for  a  long  time  without  saying  any  thing,  and  finally 
remarked  with  something  very  like  a  sigh,  — 

"  Well,  honey,  you  neenter  begrudge  'em  the'r 
walk.     Hit's  a  long  ways  through  the  san'." 

"Lordy,  yes'n !  "  exclaimed  Bud  with  something 
like  a  smile  ;  "  it's  a  mighty  long  ways,  but  the  giner'l 
had  the  gal  wi'  'im.  He  jess  humped  up  his  arm, 
an'  she  tuck  it,  an'  off  they  put." 

It  was  even  so.  Gen.  Garwood  and  Helen  walked 
home  from  the  little  church.  The  road  was  a  long 
but  a  shining  one.  In  the  moonlight  the  sand 
shone  white,  save  where  little  drifts  and  eddies 
of  pine-needles  had  gathered.  But  these  were  no 
obstruction  to  the  perspective,  for  the  road  was  an 
avenue,  broad  and  level,  that  lost  itself  in  the  dis- 
tance only  because  the  companionable  pines,  inter- 
lacing their  boughs,  contrived  to  present  a  back- 
ground both  vague  and  sombre,  — a  background  that 
receded  on  approach,  and  finally  developed  into  the 
village  of  Azalia  and  its  suburbs. 

Along  this  level  and  shining  highway  Helen  and 


204  Azalia. 

Gen.  Garwood  went.  The  carriages  that  preceded 
them,  and  the  people  who  walked  with  them  or  fol- 
lowed, gave  a  sort  of  processional  pomp  and  move- 
ment to  the  gallant  Goolsby's  wedding,  —  so  much 
so  that  if  he  could  have  witnessed  it,  his  manly- 
bosom  would  have  swelled  with  genuine  pride. 

"  The  music  you  gave  us  was  indeed  a  treat,"  said 
the  general. 

"  It  was  perhaps  more  than  you  bargained  for," 
Helen  replied.  "  I  suppose  everybody  thought  I 
was  trying  to  make  a  display,  but  I  quite  forgot 
myself.  I  was  watching  its  effect  on  one  of  the 
poor  creatures  near  the  door  —  do  you  call  them 
Tackies  ? " 

"Yes,  Tackies.  Well,  we  are  all  obliged  to  the 
poor  creature  —  man  or  woman.  No  doubt  the  for- 
tunate person  was  Bud  Stucky.  I  saw  him  standing 
near  his  mother.  Bud  is  famous  for  his  love  of 
music.  When  the  organ  is  to  be  played,  Bud  is 
always  at  the  church ;  and  sometimes  he  goes  to 
Waverly,  and  makes  Hallie  play  the  piano  for  him 
while  he  sits  out  on  the  floor  of  the  veranda  near 
the  window.     Bud  is  quite  a  character." 

"  I  am  so  sorry  for  him,"  said  Helen  gently. 

"I  doubt  if  he  is  to  be  greatly  pitied,"  said  the 
general.  "  Indeed,  as  the  music  was  for  him,  and 
not  for  us,  I  think  he  is  to  be  greatly  envied." 

"I  see  now,"  said  Helen  laughing,  "that  I  should 
have  restrained  myself." 


Azalia.  205 

"The  suggestion  is  almost  selfish,"  said  the 
general  gallantly. 

"Well,  your  nights  here  are  finer  than  music," 
Helen  remarked,  fleeing  to  an  impersonal  theme. 
"To  walk  in  the  moonlight,  without  wraps  and  with 
no  sense  of  discomfort,  in  the  middle  of  December, 
is  a  wonderful  experience  to  me.  Last  night  I 
heard  a  mocking-bird  singing ;  and  my  aunt  has 
been  asking  Mrs.  Haley  if  watermelons  are  ripe." 

"The  mocking-birds  at  Waverly,"  said  the  gen- 
eral, "  have  become  something  of  a  nuisance  under 
Hallie's  management.  There  is  a  great  flock  of 
them  on  the  place,  and  in  the  summer  they  sing  all 
night.  It  is  not  a  very  pleasant  experience  to  have 
one  whistling  at  your  window  the  whole  night 
through." 

"Mrs.  Haley,"  remarked  Helen,  "says  that  there 
are  more  mocking-birds  now  than  there  were  before 
the  war,  and  that  they  sing  louder  and  more  fre- 
quently." 

"  I  shouldn't  wonder,"  the  general  assented. 
"  Mrs.  Haley  is  quite  an  authority  on  such  matters. 
Everybody  quotes  her  opinions." 

"  I  took  the  liberty  the  other  day,"  Helen  went  on, 
"  of  asking  her  about  the  Ku  Klux." 

"  And,  pray,  what  did  she  say  ? "  the  general  asked 
with  some  degree  of  curiosity. 

"  Why,  she  said  they  were  like  the  shower  of  stars, 
—  she  had  '  heard  tell '  of  them,  but  she  had  never 


206  Azalia. 

seen  them.  'But,'  said  I,  'you  have  no  doubt  that 
the  shower  really  occurred  ! '  " 

"  Her  illustration  was  somewhat  unfortunate,"  the 
general  remarked. 

"  Oh,  by  no  means,"  Helen  replied.  "  She  looked 
at  me  with  a  twinkle  in  her  eyes,  and  said  she  had 
heard  that  it  wasn't  the  stars  that  fell,  after  all." 

Talking  thus,  with  long  intervals  of  silence,  the 
two  walked  along  the  gleaming  road  until  they 
reached  the  tavern,  where  Miss  Eustis  found  her 
aunt  and  Mrs.  Haley  waiting  on  the  broad  veranda. 

"I  don't  think  he  is  very  polite,"  said  Helen,  after 
her  escort  had  bade  them  good-night,  and  was  out  of 
hearing.  "  He  offered  me  his  arm,  and  then,  after 
we  had  walked  a  little  way,  suggested  that  we  could 
get  along  more  comfortably  by  marching  Indian  file." 

Mrs.  Haley  laughed  loudly.  "  Why,  bless  your  in- 
nocent heart,  honey  !  that  ain't  nothin'.  The  sand's 
too  deep  in  the  road,  and  the  path's  too  narrer  for 
folks  to  be  a-gwine  along  yarm-in-arm.  Lord  !  don't 
talk  about  perliteness.  That  man's  manners  is  some- 
thin'  better'n  perliteness." 

"  Well,"  said  Helen's  aunt,  "  I  can't  imagine  why 
he  should  want  to  make  you  trudge  through  the  sand 
in  that  style." 

"  It  is  probably  an  output  of  the  climate,"  said 
Helen. 

"Well,  now,  honey,"  remarked  Mrs.  Haley,  "if  he 
ast  you  to  walk  wi'  'im,  he  had  his  reasons.     I've 


Azalia.  207 

got  my  own  idee,"  she  added  with  a  chuckle.  "  I 
know  one  thing,  —  I  know  he's  monstrous  fond  of 
some  of  the  Northron  folks.  Ain't  you  never  hearn, 
how,  endurin'  of  the  war,  they  fotch  home  a  Yankee 
soldier  along  wi'  Hallie's  husband,  an'  buried  'em 
side  by  side  ?  They  tell  me  that  Hallie's  husband 
an'  the  Yankee  was  mighty  nigh  the  same  age,  an' 
had  a  sorter  favor.  If  that's  so,"  said  Mrs.  Haley, 
with  emphasis,  "  then  two  mighty  likely  chaps  was 
knocked  over  on  account  of  the  everlastin'  nigger." 

All  this  was  very  interesting  to  Helen  and  her 
aunt,  and  they  were  anxious  to  learn  all  the  particu- 
lars in  regard  to  the  young  Federal  soldier  who  had 
found  burial  at  Waverly. 

"What  his  name  was,"  said  Mrs.  Haley,  "I'll 
never  tell  you.  Old  Prince,  the  carriage-driver,  can 
tell  you  lots  more'n  I  can.  He  foun'  'em  on  the 
groun',  an'  he  fotch  'em  home.  Prince  use  to  be  a 
mighty  good  nigger  before  freedom  come  out,  but 
now  he  ain't  much  better'n  the  balance  of  'em.  You 
all  'ill  see  him  when  you  go  over  thar,  bekaze  he's 
in  an'  out  of  the  house  constant.  He'll  tell  you  all 
about  it  if  you're  mighty  perlite.  Folks  is  got  so 
they  has  to  be  mighty  perlite  to  niggers  sence  the 
war.  Yit  I'll  not  deny  that  it's  easy  to  be  perlite  to 
old  Uncle  Prince,  bekaze  he's  mighty  perlite  hisself. 
He's  what  I  call  a  high-bred  nigger."  Mrs.  Haley  said 
this  with  an  air  of  pride,  as  if  she  were  in  some  meas- 
ure responsible  for  Uncle  Prince's  good-breeding. . 


2o8  Azalia. 


V. 


It  came  to  pass  that  Helen  Eustis  and  her  aunt 
lost  the  sense  of  loneliness  which  they  had  found 
so  oppressive  during  the  first  weeks  of  their  visit. 
In  the  people  about  them  they  found  a  never-failing 
fund  of  entertainment.  They  found  in  the  climate, 
too,  a  source  of  health  and  strength.  The  resinous 
odor  of  the  pines  was  always  in  their  nostrils ;  the 
far,  faint  undertones  of  music  the  winds  made  in 
the  trees  were  always  in  their  ears.  The  provin- 
ciality of  the  people,  which  some  of  the  political 
correspondents  describe  as  distressing,  was  so 
genuinely  American  in  all  its  forms  and  manifes- 
tations, that  these  Boston  women  were  enabled  to 
draw  from  it,  now  and  then,  a  whiff  of  New-Eng- 
land air.  They  recognized  characteristics  that  made 
them  feel  thoroughly  at  home.  Perhaps,  so  far  as 
Helen  was  concerned,  there  were  other  reasons 
that  reconciled  her  to  her  surroundings.  At  any 
rate,  she  was  reconciled.  More  than  this,  she  was 
happy.  Her  eyes  sparkled,  and  the  roses  of  health 
bloomed  on  her  cheeks.  All  her  movements  were 
tributes  to  the  buoyancy  and  energy  of  her  nature. 
The  little  rector  found  out  what  this  energy 
amounted  to,  when,  on  one  occasion,  he  proposed 
to  accompany  her  on  one  of  her  walks.  It  was  a 
five-mile  excursion ;  and  he  returned,  as  Mrs.  Haley 
expressed  it,  "  a  used-up  man." 


Azalia.  209 

One  morning,  just  before  Christmas,  the  Waverly 
carriage,  driven  in  great  state  by  Uncle  Prince,  drew 
up  in  front  of  the  tavern  ;  and  in  a  few  moments 
Helen  and  her  aunt  were  given  to  understand  that 
they  had  been  sent  for,  in  furtherance  of  an  invita- 
tion they  had  accepted,  to  spend  the  holidays  at 
Waverly. 

"  Ole  Miss  would  'a'  come,"  said  Uncle  Prince, 
with  a  hospitable  chuckle,  "  but  she  sorter  ailin' ; 
en  Miss  Hallie,  she  dat  busy  dat  she  ain't  skacely 
got  time  fer  ter  tu'n  'roun'  ;  so  dey  tuck'n  sont 
atter  you,  ma'am,  des  like  you  wuz  home  folks." 

The  preparations  of  the  ladies  had  already  been 
made,  and  it  was  not  long  before  they  were  swing- 
ing along  under  the  green  pines  in  the  old-fashioned 
vehicle.  Nor  was  it  long  before  they  passed  from 
the  pine  forests,  and  entered  the  grove  of  live-oaks 
that  shaded  the  walks  and  drives  of  Waverly.  The 
house  itself  was  a  somewhat  imposing  structure, 
with  a  double  veranda  in  front,  supported  by  im- 
mense pillars,  and  surrounded  on  all  sides  by  mag- 
nificent trees.  Here,  as  Helen  and  her  aunt  had 
heard  on  all  sides,  a  princely  establishment  had 
existed  in  the  old  time  before  the  war, — an  estab- 
lishment noted  for  its  lavish  hospitality.  Here 
visitors  used  to  come  in  their  carriages  from  all 
parts  of  Georgia,  'from  South  Carolina,  and  even 
from  Virginia,  —  some  of  them  remaining  for  weeks 
at  a  time,  and  giving  to  the  otherwise  dull  neigh- 


210  Asa  Ha. 

borhood  long  seasons  of  riotous  festivity,  which 
were  at  once  characteristic  and  picturesque.  The 
old  days  had  gone  to  come  no  more,  but  there  was 
something  in  the  atmosphere  that  seemed  to  recall 
them.  The  stately  yet  simple  architecture  of  the 
house,  the  trees  with  their  rugged  and  enormous 
trunks,  the  vast  extent  of  the  grounds,  —  every 
thing,  indeed,  that  came  under  the  eye,  —  seemed 
to  suggest  the  past.  A  blackened  and  broken 
statue  lay  prone  upon  the  ground  hard  by  the 
weather-beaten  basin  of  a  fountain  long  since  dry. 
Two  tall  granite  columns,  that  once  guarded  an 
immense  gateway,  supported  the  fragmentary  skele- 
tons of  two  colossal  lamps.  There  was  a  sugges- 
tion not  only  of  the  old  days  before  the  war,  but 
of  antiquity,  —  a  suggestion  that  was  intensified  by 
the  great  hall,  the  high  ceilings,  the  wide  fireplaces, 
and  the  high  mantels  of  the  house  itself.  These 
things  somehow  gave  a  weird  aspect  to  Waverly  in 
the  eyes  of  the  visitors ;  but  this  feeling  was  largely 
atoned  for  by  the  air  of  tranquillity  that  brooded 
over  the  place,  and  it  was  utterly  dispersed  by  the 
heartiness  with  which  they  were  welcomed. 

"  Here  we  is  at  home,  ma'am,"  exclaimed  Uncle 
Prince,  opening  the  carriage-door,  and  bowing  low ; 
"en  yon'  come  ole  Miss  en  Miss  Hallie." 

The  impression  which  Helen  and  her  aunt  re- 
ceived, and  one  which  they  never  succeeded  in 
shaking  off   during  their  visit,  was  that  they  were 


Azalia.  2 1 1 

regarded  as  members  of  the  family  who  had  been 
away  for  a  period,  but  who  had  now  come  home  to 
stay.  Just  how  these  gentle  hosts  managed  to  im- 
part this  impression,  Helen  and  Miss  Tewksbury 
would  have  found  it  hard  to  explain  ;  but  they  dis- 
covered that  the  art  of  entertaining  was  not  a  lost 
art  even  in  the  piney  woods.  Every  incident,  and 
even  accidents,  contributed  to  the  enjoyment  of  the 
guests.  Even  the  weather  appeared  to  exert  itself 
to  please.  Christmas  morning  was  ushered  in  with 
a  sharp  little  flurry  of  snow.  The  scene  was  a  very 
pretty  one,  as  the  soft  white  flakes,  some  of  them 
as  large  as  a  canary's  wing,  fell  athwart  the  green 
foliage  of  the  live-oaks  and  the  magnolias. 

"  This  is  my  hour !  "  exclaimed  Helen  enthusias- 
tically. 

"We  enjoy  it  with  you,"  said  Hallie  simply. 

During  the  afternoon  the  clouds  melted  away,  the 
sun  came  out,  and  the  purple  haze  of  Indian  summer 
took  possession  of  air  and  sky.  In  an  hour  the  weather 
passed  from  the  crisp  and  sparkling  freshness  of 
winter,  to  the  wistful  melancholy  beauty  of  autumn. 

"This,"  said  Hallie  gently,  "is  my  hour."  She 
was  standing  on  the  broad  veranda  with  Helen. 
For  reply,  the  latter  placed  her  arm  around  the 
Southern  girl ;  and  they  stood  thus  for  a  long  time, 
their  thoughts  rhyming  to  the  plaintive  air  of  a 
negro  melody  that  found  its  way  across  the  fields 
and  through  the  woods. 


212  Azalia. 

Christmas  at  Waverly,  notwithstanding  the  fact 
that  the  negroes  were  free,  was  not  greatly  different 
from  Christmas  on  the  Southern  plantations  before 
the  war.  Few  of  the  negroes  who  had  been  slaves 
had  left  the  place,  and  those  that  remained  knew 
how  a  Christmas  ought  to  be  celebrated.  They 
sang  the  old-time  songs,  danced  the  old-time  dances, 
and  played  the  old-time  plays. 

All  this  was  deeply  interesting  to  the  gentlewomen 
from  Boston  ;  but  there  was  one  incident  that  left  a 
lasting  impression  on  both,  and  probably  had  its 
effect  in  changing  the  future  of  one  of  them.  It 
occurred  one  evening  when  they  were  all  grouped 
around  the  fire  in  the  drawing-room.  The  weather 
had  grown  somewhat  colder  than  usual,  and  big 
hickory  logs  were  piled  in  the  wide  fireplace.  At 
the  suggestion  of  Hallie  the  lights  had  been  put 
out,  and  they  sat  in  the  ruddy  glow  of  the  firelight. 
The  effect  was  picturesque  indeed.  The  furniture 
and  the  polished  wainscoting  glinted  and  shone,  and 
the  shadows  of  the  big  brass  andirons  were  thrown 
upon  the  ceiling,  where  they  performed  a  witch's 
dance,  the  intricacy  of  which  was  amazing  to  behold. 

It  was  an  interesting  group,  representing  the  types 
of  much  that  is  best  in  the  civilization  of  the  two  re- 
gions. Their  talk  covered  a  great  variety  of  subjects, 
but  finally  drifted  into  reminiscences  of  the  war,  — 
reminiscences  of  its  incidents  rather  than  its  passions. 

"I  have  been  told,"  said  Miss  Eustis,  "that  a  dead 


Asalia.  213 

Union  soldier  was  brought  here  during  the  war,  and 
buried.     Was  his  name  ever  known?" 

There  was  a  long  pause.  Gen.  Garwood  gazed 
steadily  into  the  fire.  His  mother  sighed  gently. 
Hallie,  who  had  been  resting  her  head  against 
Helen's  shoulder,  rose  from  her  chair,  and  glided 
from  the  room  as  swiftly  as  a  ghost. 

"Perhaps  I  have  made  a  mistake,"  said  Helen  in 
dismay.     "  The  incident  was  so  strange  "  — 

"  No,  Miss  Eustis,  you  have  made  no  mistake," 
said  Gen.  Garwood,  smiling  a  little  sadly.  "  One 
moment "  —  He  paused  as  if  listening  for  some- 
thing. Presently  the  faint  sound  of  music  was  heard. 
It  stole  softly  from  the  dark  parlor  into  the  warm 
firelight  as  if  it  came  from  far  away. 

"  One  moment,"  said  Gen.  Garwood.  "  It  is  Hallie 
at  the  piano." 

The  music,  without  increasing  in  volume,  suddenly 
gathered  coherency,  and  there  fell  on  the  ears  of  the 
listening  group  the  notes  of  an  air  so  plaintive  that 
it  seemed  like  the  breaking  of  a  heart.  It  was  as^ 
soft  as  an  echo,  and  as  tender  as  the  memories  of 
love  and  youth. 

"  We  have  to  be  very  particular  with  Hallie,"  said 
the  general,  by  way  of  explanation.  "The  Union 
soldier  in  our  burying-ground  is  intimately  connected 
with  her  bereavement  and  ours.  Hers  is  the  ono 
poor  heart  that  keeps  the  fires  of  grief  always  burn- 
ing.   I  think  she  is  willing  the  story  should  be  told." 


214  Azalia. 

"Yes*"  said  his  mother,  "else  she  would  never  go 
to  the  piano." 

"I  feel  like  a  criminal,"  said  Helen.  "  How  can  I 
apologize  ?  " 

"  It  is  we  who  ought  to  apologize  and  explain," 
replied  Gen.  Garwood.  "  You  shall  hear  the  story, 
and  then  neither  explanation  nor  apology  will  be 
necessary." 

VI. 

A  summons  was  sent  for  Uncle  Prince,  and  the 
old  man  soon  made  his  appearance.  He  stood  in  a 
seriously  expectant  attitude. 

"Prince,"  said  Gen.  Garwood,  "these  ladies  are 
from  the  North.  They  have  asked  me  about  the 
dead  Union  soldier  you  brought  home  during  the  war. 
I  want  you  to  tell  the  whole  story." 

"Tell  'bout  de  what,  Marse  Peyton?"  Both  as- 
tonishment and  distress  were  depicted  on  the  old 
negro's  face  as  he  asked  the  question.  He  seemed 
to  be  sure  that  he  had  not  heard  aright. 

"  About  the  Union  soldier  you  brought  home  with 
your  young  master  from  Virginia." 

"  Whar  Miss  Hallie,  Marse  Peyton  ?  Dat  her  in 
dar  wid  de  peanner  ?  " 

"Yes,  she's  in  there." 

"I  'lowed  she  uz  .  some'r's,  kaze  I  know  'tain't 
gwine  never  do  fer  ter  git  dat  chile  riled  up  'bout 
dem  ole  times  ;  en  it'll  be  a  mighty  wonder  ef  she 
don't  ketch  col'  in  dar  whar  she  is." 


Azalia.  2 1 5 

"  No,"  said  Gen.  Garwood  ;  "  the  room  is  warm. 
There  has  been  a  fire  in  there  all  day." 

"  Yasser,  I  know  I  builted  one  in  dar  dis  mornin', 
but  I  take  notice  dat  de  draffs  dese  times  look  like 
dey  come  bofe  ways." 

The  old  man  stood  near  the  tall  mantel,  facing  the 
group.  There  was  nothing  servile  in  his  attitude  : 
on  the  contrary,  his  manner,  when  addressing  the 
gentleman  who  had  once  been  his  master,  suggested 
easy,  not  to  say  affectionate,  familiarity.  The  fire- 
light, shining  on  his  face,  revealed  a  countenance  at 
once  rugged  and  friendly.  It  was  a  face  in  which 
humor  had  many  a  tough  struggle  with  dignity.  In 
looks  and  tone,  in  word  and  gesture,  there  was  un- 
mistakable evidence  of  that  peculiar  form  of  urbanity 
that  cannot  be  dissociated  from  gentility.  These 
things  were  more  apparent,  perhaps,  to  Helen  and 
her  aunt  than  to  those  who,  from  long  association, 
had  become  accustomed  to  Uncle  Prince's  peculiar- 
ities. 

"  Dem  times  ain't  never  got  clean  out'n  my  min'," 
said  the  old  negro,  "but  it  bin  so  long  sence  I  runn'd 
over  um,  dat  I  dunner  wharbouts  ter  begin  skacely." 

"You  can  tell  it  all  in  your  own  way,"  said  Gen. 
Garwood. 

"Yasser,  dat's  so,  but  I  fear'd  it's  a  mighty  po' 
way.  Bless  yo'  soul,  honey,"  Uncle  Prince  went  on, 
"dey  was  rough  times,  en  it  look  like  ter  me  dat  ef 
dey  wuz  ter  come  'roun'  ag'in  hit  'u'd  take  a  mighty 


216  As  alia. 

rank  runner  fer  ter  ketch  one  nigger  man  w'at  I'm 
got  some  'quaintance  wid.  Dey  wuz  rough  times, 
but  dey  wa'n't  rough  'long  at  fust.  Shoo  !  no  !  dey 
wuz  dat  slick  dat  dey  ease  we-all  right  down  'mongs' 
de  wuss  kind  er  tribbylation,  en  we  ain't  none  un  us 
know  it  twel  we  er  done  dar. 

"  I  know  dis,"  the  old  man  continued,  addressing 
himself  exclusively  to  Miss  Eustis  and  her  aunt ;  "  I 
knows  dat  we-all  wuz  a-gittin'  'long  mighty  well, 
w'en  one  day  Marse  Peyton  dar,  he  tuck  'n'  jinded 
wid  de  army ;  en  den  'twa'n't  long  'fo'  word  come 
dat  my  young  marster  w'at  gwine  ter  college  in 
Ferginny,  done  gone  en  jinded  wid  urn.  I  ax  myse'f, 
I  say,  w'at  de  name  er  goodness  does  dey  want  wid 
boy  like  dat  ?  Hit's  de  Lord's  trufe,  ma'am,  dat  ai 
chile  wa'n't  mo'  dan  gwine  on  sixteen,  ef  he  wuz  dat, 
en  I  up'n'  ax  myse'f,  I  did,  w'at  does  de  war  want 
wid  baby  like  dat  ?  Min'  you,  ma'am,  I  ain't  fin'  out 
den  w'at  war  wuz  —  I  ain't  know  w'at  a  great  big 
maw  she  got." 

"  My  son  Ethel,"  said  Mrs.  Garwood,  the  soft  tone 
of  her  voice  chiming  with  the  notes  of  the  piano, 
"was  attending  the  University  of  Virginia  at  Char- 
lottesville.    He  was  just  sixteen." 

"Yassum,"  said  Uncle  Prince,  rubbing  his  hands 
together  gently,  and  gazing  into  the  glowing  embers, 
as  if  searching  there  for  some  clew  that  would  aid 
him  in  recalling  the  past.  "  Yassum,  my  young 
marster  wuz  des  gone  by  sixteen  year,  kaze  'twa'n't 


Azalia.  2 1 7 

so  mighty  long  'fo'  dat,  dat  we-all  sont  'im  a  great 
big  box  er  fixin's  en  doin's  fer  ter  git  dar  on  he's 
binfday ;  en  I  sot  up  mighty  nigh  twel  day  tryin'  ter 
make  some  'lasses  candy  fer  ter  put  in  dar  wid  de 
yuther  doin's." 

Here  Uncle  Prince  smiled  broadly  at  the  fire. 

"  Ef  dey  wuz  sumpin'  w'at  dat  chile  like,  hit  wuz 
'lasses  candy ;  en  I  say  ter  my  ole  'oman,  I  did, 
''Mandy  Jane,  I'll  make  de  candy,  en  den  w'en  she 
good  en  done,  I'll  up  en  holler  fer  you,  en  den  you 
kin  pull  it.'  Yassum,  I  said  dem  ve'y  words.  So  de 
ole  'oman,  she  lay  down  'cross  de  baid,  en  I  sot  up 
dar  en  b'iled  de  'lasses.  De  'lasses  'u'd  blubber  en 
I'd  nod,  en  I'd  nod  en  de  'lasses  'u'd  blubber,  en  fus 
news  I  know  de  'lasses  'u  d  done  be  scorched.  Well, 
ma'am,  I  tuck  'n'  burnt  up  mighty  nigh  fo'  gallons 
er  'lasses  on  de  account  er  my  noddin',  en  bimeby 
w'en  de  ole  'oman  wake  up,  she  'low  dey  wa'n't  no 
excusion  fer  it ;  en  sho  nuff  dey  wa'n't,  kaze  w'at 
make  I  nod  dat  away  ? 

"But  dat  candy  wuz  candy,  mon,  w'en  she  did 
come,  en  den  de  ole  'oman  she  tuck  'n'  pull  it  twel 
it  git  'mos'  right  white ;  en  my  young  marster,  he 
tuck  *n'  writ  back,  he  did,  dat  ef  dey  wuz  any  thin' 
in  dat  box  w'at  make  'im  git  puny  wid  de  homesick- 
ness, hit  uz  dat  ar  'lasses  candy.  Yassum,  he  cer- 
t'n'y  did,  kaze  dey  tuck  'n'  read  it  right  out'n  de 
letter  whar  he  writ  it. 

"  'Twa'n't  long  atter  dat  'fo'  we-all  got  de  word  dat 


2 1 8  Azalia. 

my  young  marster  done  jinded  inter  de  war  wid  some 
yuther  boys  w'at  been  at  de  same  school'ouse  wid 
'im.  Den,  on  top  er  dat,  yer  come  news  dat  he  gwine 
git  married.  Bless  yo'  soul,  honey,  dat  sorter  rilded 
me  up,  en  I  march  inter  de  big  'ouse,  I  did,  en  I  up 
'n'  tell  mistis  dat  she  better  lemme  go  up  dar  en 
fetch  dat  chile  home ;  en  den  mistis  say  she  gwine 
sen'  me  on  dar  fer  ter  be  wid  'im  in  de  war,  en  take 
keer  un  'im.  Dis  holp  me  up  might'ly,  kaze  I  wuz 
a  mighty  biggity  nigger  in  dem  days.  De  white 
folks  done  raise  me  up  right  'long  wid  um,  en  way 
down  in  my  min'  I  des  laid  off  fer  ter  go  up  dar  in 
Ferginny,  en  take  my  young  marster  by  he's  collar 
en  fetch  'im  home,  des  like  I  done  w'en  he  use  ter 
git  in  de  hin'ouse  en  bodder  'long  wid  de  chickens. 

"  Dat  wuz  way  down  in  my  min',  des  like  I  tell 
you,  but  bless  yo'  soul,  chile,  hit  done  drap  out  'mos' 
'fo'  I  git  ter  'Gusty,  in  de  Nunited  State  er  Georgy. 
Time  I  struck  de  railroad  I  kin  see  de  troops  a-troop- 
in',  en  year  de  drums  a-drummin'.  De  trains  wuz 
des  loaded  down  wid  um.  Let  'lone  de  passenger 
kyars,  dey  wuz  in  de  freight-boxes  yit,  en  dey  wuz  de 
sassiest  white  mens  dat  yever  walk  'pon  topside  de 
groun'.  Mon,  dey  wuz  a  caution.  Dey  had  niggers 
wid  um,  en  de  niggers  wuz  sassy,  en  ef  I  hadn't 
a-frailed  one  un  um  out,  I  dunner  w'at  would  er 
'come  un  me. 

"  Hit  cert'n'y  wuz  a  mighty  long  ways  fum  dese 
parts.     I  come  down  yer  fum  Ferginny  in  a  waggin 


Azalia.  219 

w'en  I  wuz  des  'bout  big  nuff  fer  ter  hoi'  a  plow 
straight  in  de'  furrer,  but  'tain't  look  like  ter  me 
dat  'twuz  sech  a  fur  ways.  All  day  en  all  night  long 
fer  mighty  nigh  a  week  I  year  dem  kyar-wheels  go 
clickity-clock,  clickity-clock,  en  dem  ingines  go  choo- 
choo-choo,  choo-choo-choo,  en  it  look  like' we  ain't 
never  gwine  git  dar.  Yit,  git  dar  we  did,  en  'tain't 
take  me  long  fer  ter  fin'  de  place  whar  my  young 
marster  is.  I  laid  off  ter  fetch  'im  home ;  well, 
ma'am,  w'en  I  look  at  'im  he  skeer'd  me.  Yassum, 
you  may  b'lieve  me  er  not  b'lieve  me,  but  he  skeer'd 
me.  Stiddier  de  boy  w'at  I  wuz  a-huntin'  fer,  dar  he 
wuz,  a  great  big  grow'd-up  man,  en  bless  yo'  soul, 
he  wuz  a-trompin'  roun'  dar  wid  great  big  boots  on, 
en,  mon,  dey  had  spurrers  on  um. 

"  Ef  I  hadn'  er  year  'im  laugh,  I  nev'd  a-know'd 
'im  in  de  roun'  worl'.  I  say  ter  myse'f,  s'  I,  I'll  des 
wait  en  see  ef  he  know  who  I  is.  But  shoo !  my 
young  marster  know  me  time  he  lays  eyes  on  me,  en 
no  sooner  is  he  see  me  dan  he  fetched  a  whoop 
en  rushed  at  me.  He  'low,  '  Hello,  Daddy  !  whar  de 
name  er  goodness  you  rise  fum  ? '  He  allers  call  me 
Daddy  sence  he  been  a  baby.  De  minute 'he  say 
dat,  it  come  over  me  'bout  how  lonesome  de  folks 
wuz  at  home,  en  I  des  grabbed  'im,  en'  low,  '  Honey, 
you  better  come  go  back  wid  Daddy.' 

"  He  sorter  hug  me  back,  he  did,  en  den  he  laugh, 
but  I  tell  you  dey  wa'n't  no  laugh  in  me,  kaze  I  done 
see  w'iles  I  gwine   long-  w'at    kinder  'sturbance  de 


220  Azalia. 

white  folks  wuz  a-gittin'  up,  en  I  know'd  dey  wuz 
a-gwine  ter  be  trouble  pile  'pon  trouble.  Yit  dar  he 
wuz  a-laughin'  en  a-projickin',  en  'mongs'  all  dem 
yuther  mens  dey  wa'n't  none  un  urn  good-lookin'  like 
my  young  marster.  I  don't  keer  w'at  kinder  cloze 
he  put  on,  dey  fit  'im,  en  I  don't  keer  w'at  crowd  he 
git  in,  dey  ain't  none  un  um  look  like  'im.  En  'tain't 
on'y  me  say  dat ;  I  done  year  lots  er  yuther  folks  say 
dem  ve'y  words. 

"  I  ups  en  sez,  s'  I,  '  Honey,  you  go  'long  en  git  yo' 
things,  en  come  go  home  'long  wid  Daddy.  Dey  er 
waitin'  fer  you  down  dar,'  —  des  so  !  Den  he  look  at 
me  cute  like  he  us'ter  w'en  he  wuz  a  baby,  en  he 
'low,  he  did,  — 

" '  I'm  mighty  glad  you  come,  Daddy,  en  I  hope 
you  brung  yo'  good  cloze,  kaze  you  des  come  in 
time  fer  ter  go  in  'ten'ance  on  my  weddin'.'  Den  I 
'low,  " '  You  oughtn'  be  a-talkin'  dat  away,  honey. 
W'at  in  de  name  er  goodness  is  chilluns  like  you  got 
ter  do  wid  marryin'  ? '  Wid  dat,  he  up  'n'  laugh,  but 
'twa'n't  no  laughin'  matter  wid  me.  Yit  'twuz  des 
like  he  tell  me,  en  'twa'n't  many  hours  'fo'  we  wuz 
gallopin'  cross  de  country  to'ds  Marse  Randolph 
Herndon'  place ;  en  dar  whar  he  married.  En  you 
may  b'lieve  me  er  not,  ma'am,  des  ez  you  please,  but 
dat  couple  wuz  two  er  de  purtiest  chilluns  you  ever 
laid  eyes  on,  en  dar  Miss  Hallie  in  dar  now  fer  ter 
show  you  I'm  a-tellin'  de  true  word.  'Mos'  'fo'  de 
weddin'  wuz  over,  news  come  dat  my  young  marster 


Azalia.  221 

en  de  folks  wid  'im  mus'  go  back  ter  camps,  en  back 
we  went. 

"Well,  ma'am,  dar  we  wuz  —  a  mighty  far  ways 
fum  home,  Miss  Hallie  a-cryin',  en  de  war  gwine  on 
des  same  ez  ef  'twuz  right  out  dar  in  de  yard.  My 
young  marster  'low  dat  I  des  come  in  time,  kaze  he 
mighty  nigh  pe'sh'd  fer  sumpin'  'n'er  good  ter  eat. 
I  whirled  in,  I  did,  en  I  cook  'im  some  er  de  right 
kinder  vittles ;  but  all  de  time  I  cookin',  I  say  ter 
myse'f,  I  did,  dat  I  mought  er  come  too  soon,  er  I 
mought  er  come  too  late,  but  I  be  bless'  ef  I  come 
des  in  time. 

"  Hit  went  on  dis  away  scan'lous.  We  marched 
en  we  stopped,  en  we  stopped  en  we  marched,  en 
'twuz  de  Lord's  blessin'  dat  we  rid  hosses,  kaze  ef 
my  young  marster  had  'a'  bin  'blige'  ter  tromp  thoo 
de  mud  like  some  er  dem  white  mens,  I  speck  I'd 
'a'  had  ter  tote  'im,  dough  he  uz  mighty  spry  en 
tough.  Sometimes  dem  ar  bung-shells  'u'd  drap 
right  in  'mongs'  whar  we-all  wuz,  en  dem  wuz  de 
times  w'en  I  feel  like  I  better  go  off  some'r's  en 
hide,  not  dat  I  wuz  anyways  skeery,  kaze  I  wa'n't ; 
but  ef  one  er  dem  ur  bung-shells  had  er  strucken 
me,  I  dunner  who  my  young  marster  would  'a'  got 
ter  do  he's  cookin'  en  he's  washin'. 

"Hit  went  on  dis  away,  twel  bimeby  one  night, 
way  in  de  night,  my  young  marster  come  whar  I  wuz 
layin',  en  shuck  me  by  de  shoulder.  I  wuz  des  wide 
'wake  ez  w'at  he  wuz,  yit  I  ain't  make  no  motion 


222  Azalia. 

He  shuck  me  ag'in,  en  'low,  '  Daddy !  O  Daddy  ! 
I'm  gwine  on  de  skirmish  line.  I  speck  we  gwine 
ter  have  some  fun  out  dar.' 

"  I  'low,  I  did,  '  Honey,  you  make  'aste  back  ter 
break'us,  kaze  I  got  some  sossige  meat  en  some 
gennywine  coffee." 

"  He  ain't  say  nothin',  but  w'en  he  git  little  ways 
off,  he  tu'n  'roun'  en  come  back,  he  did,  en  'low, 
'Good-night,  Daddy.'  I  lay  dar,  en  I  year  un  w'en 
dey  start  off.  I  year  der  hosses  a-snortin',  en  der 
spurrers  a-jinglin'.  Ef  dey  yever  wuz  a  restless 
creetur  hit  uz  me  dat  night.  I  des  lay  dar  wid  my 
eyes  right  wide  open,  en  dey  staid  open,  kaze,  atter 
w'ile,  yer  come  daylight,  en  den  I  rousted  out,  I  did, 
en  built  me  a  fire,  en  'twa'n't  long  'fo'  I  had  break'us 
a-fryin'  en  de  coffee  a-b'ilin',  kaze  I  spected  my 
young  marster  eve'y  minute ;  en  he  uz  one  er  dese 
yer  kinder  folks  w'at  want  he's  coffee  hot,  en  all  de 
yuther  vittles  on  de  jump. 

"  I  wait  en  I  wait,  en  still  he  ain't  come.  Hit 
cert'n'y  look  like  a  mighty  long  time  w'at  he  stay 
'way  ;  en  bimeby  I  tuck  myse'f  off  ter  make  some 
inquirements,  kaze  mighty  nigh  all  he's  comp'ny 
done  gone  wid  'im.  I  notice  dat  de  white  mens  look 
at  me  mighty  kuse  w'en  I  ax  um  'bout  my  young 
marster ;  en  bimeby  one  un  um  up  en  'low,  '  Ole 
man,  whar  yo'  hat  ? '  des  dat  away.  I  feel  on  my 
haid,  en,  bless  goodness !  my  hat  done  gone ;  but  I 
'spon'  back,  I  did,  '  'Tain't  no   time  fer  no  nigger 


Azalia.  223 

man  fer  ter  be  bodder'n'  'bout  he's  hat,'  des  so. 
Well,  ma'am,  bimeby  I  struck  up  wid  some  er  my 
young  marster'  comp'ny,  en  dey  up  'n'  tell  me  dat 
dey  had  a  racket  out  dar  en  de  skirmish  line,  en  dey- 
hatter  run  in,  en  dey  speck  my  young  marster  be 
'long  terreckerly.  Den  I  year  some  un  say  dat  dey 
speck  de  Yankees  tuck  some  pris'ners  out  dar,  en 
den  I  know  dat  ain't  gwine  do  fer  me.  I  des  runn'd 
back  ter  whar  we  been  campin',  en  I  mount  de  hoss 
w'at  my  young  marster  gun  me,  en  I  rid  right 
straight  out  ter  whar  dey  been  fightin'.  My  min' 
tol'  me  dey  wuz  sumpin'  'n'er  wrong  out  dar,  en  I 
let  you  know,  ma'am,  I  rid  mighty  fas' ;  I  sholy 
made  dat  ole  hoss  git  up  fum  dar.  De  white  mens 
dey  holler  at  me  w'en  I  pass,  but  eve'y  time  dey 
holler  I  make  dat  creetur  men'  he's  gait.  Some  un 
um  call  me  a  country-ban',  en  say  I  runnin'  'way,  en 
ef  de  pickets  hadn't  all  been  runnin'  in,  I  speck  dey'd 
'a'  fetched  de  ole  nigger  up  wid  de  guns.  But  dat 
never  cross  my  min'  dat  day. 

"Well,  ma'am,  I  haid  my  hoss  de  way  de  pickets 
comin'  fum ;  en  ef  dey  hadn't  er  been  so  much 
underbresh  en  so  many  sassyfac  saplin's,  I  speck  I'd 
'a'  run  dat  creetur  ter  def :  but  I  got  ter  whar  I 
hatter  go  slow,  en  I  des  pick  my  way  right  straight 
forrerd  de  bes'  I  kin.  I  ain't  hatter  go  so  mighty 
fur,  nudder,  'fo'  I  come  'cross  de  place  whar  dey  had 
de  skirmish ;  en  fum  dat  day  ter  dis  I  ain't  never  see 
no  lonesome  place  like  dat.     Dey  wuz  a  cap  yer,  a 


224  Azalia. 

hat  yander,  en  de  groun'  look  like  it  wuz  des  strowed 
wid  um.  I  stop  en  listen.  Den  I  rid  on  a  little 
ways,  en  den  I  stop  en  listen.  Bimeby  I  year  hoss 
whicker,  en  den  de  creetur  w'at  I'm  a-ridin',  he 
whicker  back,  en  do  des  like  he  wanter  go  whar  de 
t'er  hoss  is.  I  des  gin  'im  de  rein ;  en  de  fus  news 
I  know,  he  trot  right  up  ter  de  big  black  hoss  w'at 
my  young  marster  rid. 

"  I  look  little  furder,  I  did,  en  I  see  folks  lyin'  on 
de  groun'.  Some  wuz  double'  up,  en  some  wuz  layin' 
out  straight.  De  win'  blow  de  grass  back'ards  en 
forrerds,  but  dem  sojer-men  dey  never  move ;  en  den 
I  know  dey  wuz  dead.  I  look  closer  ;  en  dar  'pon 
de  groun',  'mos'  right  at  me,  wuz  my  young  marster 
layin'  right  by  de  side  er  one  er  dem  Yankee  mens. 
I  jumped  down,  I  did,  en  run  ter  whar  he  wuz ;  but 
he  wuz  done  gone.  My  heart  jump,  my  knees  shuck, 
en  my  han'  trimble  ;  but  I  know  I  got  ter  git  away 
fum  dar.  Hit  look  like  at  fus'  dat  him  en  dat 
Yankee  man  been  fightin'  ;  but  bimeby  I  see  whar 
my  young  marster  bin  crawl  thoo  de  weeds  en  grass 
ter  whar  de  Yankee  man  wuz  layin'  ;  en  he  had  one 
arm  un'  de  man'  haid,  en  de  ter  han'  wuz  gripped 
on  he's  canteen.  I  fix  it  in  my  min',  ma'am,  dat 
my  young  marster  year  dat  Yankee  man  holler  fer 
water ;  en  he  des  make  out  fer  ter  crawl  whar  he  is, 
en  dar  I  foun'  um  bofe. 

"  Dey  wuz  layin'  close  by  a  little  farm  road,  en  not 
so  mighty  fur  off  I  year  a  chicken  crowin'.     I  say 


Azalia.  225 

ter  myse'f  dat  sholy  folks  must  be  livin'  whar  dey 
chickens  crowin' ;  en  I  tuck'n'  mount  my  young 
marster's  hoss,  en  right  'roun'  de  side  er  de  hill  I 
come  'cross  a  house.  De  folks  wuz  all  gone ;  but  dey 
wuz  a  two-hoss  vvaggin  in  de  lot  en  some  gear  in 
de  barn,  en  I  des  loped  back  atter  de  yuther  hoss,  en 
'mos'  'fo'  you  know  it,  I  had  dem  creeturs  hitch  up : 
en  I  went  en  got  my  young  marster  en  de  Yankee 
man  w'at  wuz  wid  'im,  en  I  kyard  um  back  ter  de 
camps.  I  got  um  des  in  time,  too,  kase  I  ain't  mo'n 
fairly  start  'fo'  I  year  big  gun,  be-bang!  en  den  I 
know'd  de  Yankees  mus'  be  a-comin'  back.  Den  de 
bung-shells  'gun  ter  bus' ;  en  I  ax  myse'f  w'at  dey 
shootin'  at  me  fer,  en  I  ain't  never  fin'  out  w'at  make 
dey  do  it. 

"  Well,  ma'am,  w'en  I  git  back  ter  camps,  dar  wuz 
Cunnel  Tip  Herndon,  w'ich  he  wuz  own  br'er  ter 
Miss  Hallie.  Maybe  you  been  year  tell  er  Marse 
Tip,  ma'am ;  he  cert'n'y  wuz  a  mighty  fine  man. 
Marse  Tip,  he  'uz  dar,  en  'twa'n't  long  'fo'  Miss 
Hallie  wuz  dar,  kaze  she  ain't  live  so  mighty  fur ;  en 
Miss  Hallie  say  dat  my  young  marster  en  de  Yankee 
man  mus'  be  brung  home  terge'er.    So  dey  brung  um." 

Uncle  Prince  paused.  His  story  was  at  an  end. 
He  stooped  to  stir  the  fire ;  and  when  he  rose,  his 
eyes  were  full  of  tears.  Humble  as  he  was,  he  could 
pay  this  tribute  to  the  memory  of  the  boy  soldier 
whom  he  had  nursed  in  sickness  and  in  health.  It 
was  a  stirring  recital.     Perhaps  it  is  not  so  stirring 


226  Azalia. 

when  transferred  to  paper.  The  earnestness,  the 
simplicity,  the  awkward  fervor,  the  dramatic  gestures, 
the  unique  individuality  of  Uncle  Prince,  cannot  be 
reproduced ;  but  these  things  had  a  profound  effect 
on  Miss  Eustis  and  her  aunt. 


VII. 

Throughout  the  narrative  the  piano  had  been 
going,  keeping,  as  it  seemed,  a  weird  accompaniment 
to  a  tragic  story.  This  also  had  its  effect ;  for,  so 
perfectly  did  the  rhythm  and  sweep  of  the  music 
accord  with  the  heart-rending  conclusion,  that  Helen, 
if  her  mind  had  been  less  pre-occupied  with  sympa- 
thy, would  probably  have  traced  the  effect  of  it  all 
to  a  long  series  of  rehearsals :  in  fact,  such  a  sugges- 
tion did  occur  to  her,  but  the  thought  perished 
instantly  in  the  presence  of  the  unaffected  simplicity 
and  the  childlike  earnestness  which  animated  the 
words  of  the  old  negro. 

The  long  silence  which  ensued  ■—  for  the  piano 
ceased,  and  Hallie  nestled  at  Helen's  side  once  more 
—  was  broken  by  Gen.  Garwood. 

"We  were  never  able  to  identify  the  Union  soldier. 
He  had  in  his  possession  a  part  of  a  letter,  and  a 
photograph  of  himself.  These  were  in  an  inner 
pocket.  I  judge  that  he  knew  he  was  to  be  sent 
on  a  dangerous  mission,  and  had  left  his  papers  and 
whatever  valuables  he  may  have  possessed  behind 


Azalia.  227 

him.  The  little  skirmish  in  which  he  fell  was  a 
surprise  to  both  sides.  A  scouting  party  of  perhaps 
a  dozen  Federal  cavalrymen  rode  suddenly  upon  as 
many  Confederate  cavalrymen  who  had  been  detailed 
for  special  picket  duty.  There  was  a  short,  sharp 
fight,  and  then  both  sides  scampered  away.  The 
next  day  the  Federal  army  occupied  the  ground." 

"It  is  a  pity,"  said  Helen,  "that  his  identity 
should  be  so  utterly  lost." 

"  Hallie,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Garwood,  "would  it 
trouble  you  too  much  to  get  the  photograph  of  the 
Union  soldier?     If  it  is  any  trouble,  my  child"  — 

Hallie  went  swiftly  out  of  the  room,  and  returned 
almost  immediately  with  the  photograph,  and  handed 
it  to  Helen,  who  examined  it  as  well  as  she  could  by 
the  dim  firelight. 

"  The  face  is  an  interesting  one,  as  well  as  I  can 
make  out,"  said  Helen,  "  and  it  has  a  strangely 
familiar  look.     He  was  very  young." 

She  handed  the  picture  to  her  aunt.  Her  face 
was  very  pale. 

"I  can't  see  by  this  light,"  said  Miss  Tewksbury. 
But  Uncle  Prince  had  already  brought  a  lamp  which 
he  had  been  lighting.  "  Why,  my  dear,"  said  Miss 
Tewksbury,  in  a  tone  of  voice  that  suggested  both 
awe  an4  consternation,  —  "why,  my  dear,  this  is 
your  brother  Wendell  !  " 

"  Oh,  aunt  Harriet !  I  thought  so  —  I  was  afraid 
so — but  are  you  sure?" 


228  Azalia. 

"As  sure  as  that  I  am  sitting  here." 

Helen  burst  into  tears.  "  Oh,  why  didn't  I  recog- 
nize him  ?  How  could  I  fail  to  know  my  darling 
brother  ?  "  she  cried. 

Hallie  rose  from  her  low  stool,  and  stood  gazing 
at  Helen.  Her  face  was  pale  as  death,  but  in  her 
eyes  gleamed  the  fire  of  long-suppressed  grief  and 
passion.  She  seemed  like  one  transformed.  She 
flung  her  white  arms  above  her  head,  and  ex- 
claimed, — 

"  I  knew  it !  I  knew  it !  I  knew  that  some  poor 
heart  would  find  its  long-lost  treasure  here.  I  have 
felt  it  —  I  have  dreamed  it !  Oh,  I  am  so  glad  you 
have  found  your  brother  !  " 

"  Oh,  but  I  should  have  known  his  picture,"  said 
Helen. 

"But,  my  dear  child,"  said  Miss  Tewksbury,  in  a 
matter-of-fact  way,  "  there  is  every  reason  why  you 
should  not  have  known  it.  This  picture  was  taken 
in  Washington,  and  he  never  sent  a  copy  of  it  home. 
If  he  did,  your  father  put  it  away  among  his  papers. 
You  were  not  more  than  twelve  years  old  when 
Wendell  went  away." 

"  Perhaps  if  Hallie  will  get  the  fragment  of  let- 
ter," said  Gen.  Garwood  to  Miss  Tewksbury,  "it  will 
confirm  your  impression." 

"  Oh,  it  is  no  impression,"  replied  Miss  Tewksbury. 
"I  could  not  possibly  be  mistaken." 

The  fragment  of  letter,  when  produced,  proved  to 


Azalia.  229 

be  in  the  handwriting  of  Charles  Osborne  Eustis ; 
and  there  was  one  sentence  in  it  that  was  peculiarly 
characteristic.  "Remember,  dear  Wendell,"  it  said, 
"that  the  war  is  not  urged  against  men  ;  it  is  against 
an  institution  which  the  whole  country,  both  North 
and  South,  will  be  glad  to  rid  itself  of." 

It  would  be  difficult,  under  all  the  circumstances, 
to  describe  Helen's  thoughts.  She  was  gratified  — 
she  was  more  than  gratified  —  at  the  unexpected 
discovery,  and  she  was  grateful  to  those  who  had 
cared  for  her  brother's  grave  with  such  scrupulous 
care.  She  felt  more  at  home  than  ever.  The  last 
barrier  of  sectional  reserve  (if  it  may  be  so  termed) 
was  broken  down,  so  far  as  she  was  concerned ;  and 
during  the  remainder  of  her  stay,  her  true  character 
—  her  womanliness,  her  tenderness,  her  humor  — 
revealed  itself  to  these  watchful  and  sensitive  South- 
erners. Even  Miss  Tewksbury,  who  had  the  excuse 
of  age  and  long  habit  for  her  prejudices,  showed  the 
qualities  that  made  her  friends  love  her.  In  the  lan- 
guage of  the  little  rector,  who  made  a  sermon  out  of 
the  matter,  "all  things  became  homogeneous  through 
the  medium  of  sympathy  and  the  knowledge  of 
mutual  suffering." 

In  fact,  every  thing  was  so  agreeable  during  the 
visit  of  Helen  and  her  aunt  to  Waverly,  —  a  visit 
that  was  prolonged  many  days  beyond  the  limit  they 
had  set,  — that  Uncle  Prince  remarked  on  it  one 
nic;ht  to  his  wife. 


230  Azalia. 

"I'm  a  nigger  man,  'Mandy  Jane,"  said  he,  "but  I 
got  two  eyes,  en  dey  er  good  ones.  Wat  I  sees 
I  knows,  en  I  tell  you  right  now,  Marse  Peyton  is 
done  got  strucken." 

"  Done  got  strucken  'bout  what  ?  "  inquired  'Mandy 
Jane. 

"'Bout  dat  young  lady  w'at  stayin'  yer.  Oh,  you 
neenter  holler,"  said  Uncle  Prince  in  response  to  a 
contemptuous  laugh  from  'Mandy  Jane.  "  I  ain't 
nothin'  but  a  nigger  man,  but  I  knows  w'at  I  sees." 

"  Yes,  you  is  a  nigger  man,"  said  'Mandy  Jane  tri- 
umphantly. "  Ef  you  wuz  a  nigger  'oman  you'd  have 
lots  mo'  sense  dan  w'at  you  got.  W'y,  dat  lady  up 
dar  ain't  our  folks.  She  mighty  nice,  I  speck,  but 
she  ain't  our  folks.     She  ain't  talk  like  our  folks  yit." 

"  No  matter  'bout  dat,"  said  Uncle  Prince.  "  I  ain't 
seed  no  nicer  'oman  dan  w'at  she  is,  en  I  boun'  you 
she  kin  talk  mighty  sweet  w'en  she  take  a  notion. 
Wen  my  two  eyes  tell  me  de  news  I  knows  it,  en 

Marse  Peyton  done  got  strucken  long  wid  dat  white 

>  >> 

oman. 

"En  now  you  gwine  tell  me,"  said  'Mandy  Jane 
with  a  fine  assumption  of  scorn,  "dat  Marse  Peyton 
gwine  marry  wid  dat  w'ite  'oman  en  trapse  off  dar 
ter  der  Norf  ?  Shoo  !  Nigger  man,  you  go  ter  bed 
'fo'  you  run  yo'se'f  'stracted." 

"  I  dunno  whar  Marse  Peyton  gwine,  'Mandy  Jane, 
but  I  done  see  'im  talkin'  'long  wid  dat  white  lady,  en 
lookin'  at  her  wid  he's  eyes.     Huh  !  don'   tell  me ! 


Azalia.  231 

En  dat  ain't  all,  'Mandy  Jane,"  Uncle  Prince  went 
on  :  "dat  Bud  Stucky,  he's  f'rever'n  etarnally  sneakin' 
'ream'  de  house  up  dar.  One  day  he  want  sumpin' 
ter  eat,  en  nex'  day  he  want  Miss  Hallie  fer  ter  play 
en  de  peanner,  but  all  de  time  I  see  'im  a-watchin' 
dat  ar  white  lady  fum  de  Norf." 

"  Hush  !  "  exclaimed  'Mandy  Jane. 

"Des  like  I  tell  you  ! "  said  Uncle  Prince. 

"  Well,  de  nasty,  stinkin',  oudacious  villyun  !  "  com- 
mented 'Mandy  Jane.  "  I  lay  ef  I  go  up  dar  en  set 
de  dogs  on  'im,  he'll  stop  sneakin'  'roun'  dis  place." 

"Let'im  'lone,  'Mandy  Jane,  let  'im  'lone,"  said 
Uncle  Prince  solemnly.  "Dat  ar  Bud  Stucky,  he 
got  a  mammy,  en  my  min'  tell  me  dat  he's  mammy 
kin  run  de  kyards  en  trick  you.  Now  you  watch 
out,  'Mandy  Jane.  You  go  on  en  do  de  washin',  like 
you  bin  doin',  en  den  ole  Miss  Stucky  won't  git  atter 
you  wid  de  kyards  en  cunjur  you.  Dat  ole  'oman  got 
er  mighty  bad  eye,  mon." 

VIII. 

Uncle  Prince,  it  appears,  was  a  keen  observer, 
especially  where  Gen.  Garwood  was  concerned.  He 
had  discovered  a  fact  in  regard  to  "Marse  Peyton," 
as  he  called  him,  that  had  only  barely  suggested 
itself  to  that  gentleman's  own  mind,  —  the  fact  that 
his  interest  in  Miss  Eustis  had  assumed  a  phase 
altogether  new  and  unexpected.     Its  manifestations 


232  Azalia. 

were  pronounced  enough  to  pester  Miss  Tewksbury, 
but,  strange  to  say,  neither  Gen.  Garwood  nor  Miss 
Eustis  appeared  to  be  troubled  by  them.  As  a  mat- 
ter of  fact,  these  two  were  merely  new  characters 
in  a  very  old  story,  the  details  of  which  need  not  be 
described  or  dwelt  on  in  this  hasty  chronicle.  It 
was  not  by  any  means  a  case  of  love  at  first  sight. 
It  was  better  than  that :  it  was  a  case  of  love  based 
on  a  firmer  foundation  than  whim,  or  passion,  or  sen- 
timentality. At  any  rate,  Helen  and  her  stalwart 
lover  were  as  happy,  apparently,  as  if  they  had  just 
begun  to  enjoy  life  and  the  delights  thereof.  There 
was  no  love-making,  so  far  as  Miss  Tewksbury  could 
see ;  but  there  was  no  attempt  on  the  part  of  either 
to  conceal  the  fact  that  they  heartily  enjoyed  each 
other's  companionship. 

Bud  Stucky  continued  his  daily  visits  for  several 
weeks ;  but  one  day  he  failed  to  make  his  appear- 
ance, and  after  a  while  news  came  that  he  was  ill 
of  a  fever.  The  ladies  at  Waverly  sent  his  mother 
a  plentiful  supply  of  provisions,  together  with  such 
delicacies  as  seemed  to  them  necessary ;  but  Bud 
Stucky  continued  to  waste  away.  One  day  Helen, 
in  spite  of  the  protests  of  her  aunt,  set  out  to  visit 
the  sick  man,  carrying  a  small  basket  in  which  Hallie 
had  placed  some  broiled  chicken  and  a  small  bottle 
of  home-made  wine.  Approaching  the  Stucky  cabin, 
she  was  alarmed  at  the  silence  that  reigned  within. 
She  knocked,  but  there  was  no  response  ;  whereupon 


Azalia.  233 

she  pushed  the  door  open  and  entered.  The  sight 
that  met  her  eyes,  and  the  scene  that  followed,  are 
still  fresh  in  her  memory. 

Poor  Bud  Stucky,  the  shadow  of  his  former  self, 
was  lying  on  the  bed.  His  thin  hands  were  crossed 
on  his  breast,  and  the  pallor  of  death  was  on  his 
emaciated  face.  His  mother  sat  by  the  bed  with  her 
eyes  fixed  on  his.  She  made  no  sign  when  Helen 
entered,  but  continued  to  gaze  on  her  son.  The 
young  woman,  bent  on  a  mission  of  mercy,  paused 
on  the  threshold,  and  regarded  the  two  unfortunates 
with  a  sympathy  akin  to  awe.  Bud  Stucky  moved 
his  head  uneasily,  and  essayed  to  speak ;  but  the 
sound  died  away  in  his  throat.  He  made  another 
effort.  His  lips  moved  feebly ;  his  voice  had  an 
unearthly,  a  far-away  sound. 

"Miss,"  he  said,  regarding  her  with  a  piteous 
expression  in  his  sunken  eyes,  "  I  wish  you'd  please, 
ma'am,  make  maw  let  me  go."  He  seemed  to  gather 
strength  as  he  went  on.  "I'm  all  ready,  an' 
a-waitin' ;  I  wish  you'd  please,  ma'am,  make  'er  let 
me  go." 

"  Oh,  what  can  I  do  ?  "  cried  Helen,  seized  with  a 
new  sense  of  the  pathos  that  is  a  part  of  the  hum- 
blest human  life. 

"  Please,  ma'am,  make  'er  let  me  go.  I  been  a-layin' 
here  ready  two  whole  days  an'  three  long  nights,  but 
maw  keeps  on  a-watchin'  of  me ;  she  won't  let  me 
go.     She's  got  'er  eyes  nailed  on  me  constant." 


234  Azalia. 

Helen  looked  at  the  mother,  Her  form  was 
wasted  by  long  vigils,  but  she  sat  bolt  upright  in  her 
chair,  and  in  her  eyes  burned  the  fires  of  an  indom- 
itable will.     She  kept  them  fixed  on  her  son. 

"  Won't  you  please,  ma'am,  tell  maw  to  let  me  go  ? 
I'm  so  tired  er  waitin'." 

The  plaintive  voice  seemed  to  be  an  echo  from  the 
valley  of  the  shadow  of  death.  Helen,  watching 
narrowly  and  with  agonized  curiosity,  thought  she 
saw  the  mother's  lips  move ;  but  no  sound  issued 
therefrom.     The  dying  man  made  another  appeal :  — 

"  Oh,  I'm  so  tired  !  I'm  all  ready,  an'  she  won't 
let  me  go.  A  long  time  ago  when  I  us'  ter  ax  'er, 
she'd  let  me  do  'most  any  thing,  an'  now  she  won't 
let  me  go.  Oh,  Lordy !  I'm  so  tired  er  waitin'  ! 
Please,  ma'am,  ax  'er  to  let  me  go." 

Mrs.  Stucky  rose  from  her  chair,  raised  her  clasped 
hands  above  her  head,  and  turned  her  face  away. 
As  she  did  so,  something  like  a  sigh  of  relief  escaped 
from  her  son.  He  closed  his  eyes,  and  over  his  wan 
face  spread  the  repose  and  perfect  peace  of  death. 

Turning  again  towards  the  bed,  Mrs.  Stucky  saw 
Helen  weeping  gently.  She  gazed  at  her  a  moment. 
"  Whatter  you  cryin'  fer  now  ?  "  she-  asked  with  un- 
mistakable bitterness.  "You  wouldn't  a-wiped  your 
feet  on  'im.  Ef  you  wuz  gwine  ter  cry,  whyn't  you 
let  'im  see  you  do  it  'fore  he  died  ?  What  good  do  it 
do  'im  now  ?     He  wa'n't  made  out'n  i'on  like  me." 

Helen  made  no  reply.     She  placed  her  basket  on 


Azalia.  235 

the  floor,  went  out  into  the  sunlight,  and  made  her 
way  swiftly  back  to  Waverly.  Her  day's  experience 
made  a  profound  impression  on  her,  so  much  so  that 
when  the  time  came  for  her  to  go  home,  she  insisted 
on  going  alone  to  bid  Mrs.  Stucky  good-by. 

She  found  the  lonely  old  woman  sitting  on  her 
door-sill.  She  appeared  to  be  gazing  on  the  ground, 
but  her  sun  bonnet  hid  her  face.  Helen  approached, 
and  spoke  to  her.  She  gave  a  quick  upward  glance, 
and  fell  to  trembling.  She  was  no  longer  made  of 
iron.  Sorrow  had  dimmed  the  fire  of  her  eyes. 
Helen  explained  her  visit,  shook  hands  with  her,  and 
was  going  away,  when  the  old  woman,  in  a  broken 
voice,  called  her  to  stop.  Near  the  pine-pole  gate 
was  a  little  contrivance  of  boards  that  looked  like  a 
bird-trap.     Mrs.  Stucky  went  to  this,  and  lifted  it. 

"  Come  yer,  honey,"  she  cried,  "  yer's  somepin'  I 
wanter  show  you."  Looking  closely,  Helen  saw 
moulded  in  the  soil  the  semblance  of  a  footprint. 
"Look  at  it,  honey,  look  at  it,"  said  Mrs.  Stucky; 
"that's  his  darlin'  precious  track." 

Helen  turned,  and  went  away  weeping.  The  sight 
of  that  strange  memorial,  which  the  poor  mother  had 
made  her  shrine,  leavened  the  girl's  whole  after-life. 

When  Helen  and  her  aunt  came  to  take  their 
leave  of  Azalia,  their  going  away  was  not  by  any 
means  in  the  nature  of  a  merry-making.  They  went 
away  sorrowfully,  and  left  many  sorrowful  friends 
behind    them.     Even   William,   the   bell-ringer   and 


> 


236  Azalia. 

purveyor  of  hot  batter-cakes  at  Mrs.  Haley's  hotel, 
walked  to  the  railroad-station  to  see  them  safely 
off.  Gen.  Garwood  accompanied  them  to  Atlanta ; 
and  though  the  passenger-depot  in  that  pushing  city 
is  perhaps  the  most  unromantic  spot  to  be  found  in 
the  wide  world,  —  it  is  known  as  the  "  Car-shed  "  in 
Atlantese, — it  was  there  that  he  found  courage  to 
inform  Miss  Eustis  that  he  purposed  to  visit  Boston 
during  the  summer  in  search  not  only  of  health,  but 
of  happiness ;  and  Miss  Eustis  admitted,  with  a  re- 
serve both  natural  and  proper,  that  she  would  be 
very  happy  to  see  him. 

It  is  not  the  purpose  of  this  chronicle  to  follow 
Gen.  Garwood  to  Boston.  The  files  of  the  Boston 
papers  will  show  that  he  went  there,  and  that,  in  a 
quiet  way,  he  was  the  object  of  considerable  social 
attention.  But  it  is  in  the  files  of  the  "Brookline 
Reporter"  that  the  longest  and  most  graphic  account 
of  the  marriage  of  Miss  Eustis  to  Gen.  Garwood  is 
to  be  found.  It  is  an  open  secret  in  the  literary 
circles  of  Boston,  that  the  notice  in  the  "Reporter" 
was  from  the  pen  of  Henry  P.  Bassett,  the  novelist. 
It  was  headed  "  Practical  Reconstruction ; "  and  it  was 
conceded  on  all  sides,  that,  even  if  the  article  had 
gone  no  farther  than  the  head-line,  it  would  have 
been  a  very  happy  description  of  the  happiest  of 
events. 


.  :=.  ■ 


